No.97

The Skylark

James Hogg 1770-1835

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

-o0o-

No.96

Something Tapped
 Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

Something tapped on the pane of my room
When there was never a trace
Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom
My weary Belovèd's face.

"O I am tired of waiting," she said,
"Night, morn, noon, afternoon;
So cold it is in my lonely bed,
And I thought you would join me soon!"

I rose and neared the window-glass,
But vanished thence had she:
Only a pallid moth, alas,
Tapped at the pane for me.

-o0o-

No.95

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

Charles Wolfe 1791-1823

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him,

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone

And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,

But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

-o0o-

A new blog 

Every Day a Discovery on the Net

begins tomorrow !st November

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-o0o-

No.94

When I have baked White Cakes
Amy Lowell

When I have baked white cakes
And grated green almonds to spread upon them;
When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries
And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;
When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;
What then?
To-morrow it will be the same:
Cakes and strawberries,
And needles in and out of cloth.
If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,
How much more beautiful is the moon,
Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;
The moon,
Wavering across a bed of tulips;
The moon,
Still,
Upon your face.
You shine, Beloved,
You and the moon.
But which is the reflection?
The clock is striking eleven.
I think, when we have shut and barred the door,
The night will be dark
Outside.

-o0o-

No.93

Invictus
William Ernest Henley 1849-1903

Out of the night that covers me,
   Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
   For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
   I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
   My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond the place of wrath and tears
   Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
   Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
   How charged with punishment the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
 I am the captain of my soul.

-o0o-

No. 92

The Mountains of Mourne

Percy French 1854-1920

Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight,

With people all working by day and by night.

Sure, they don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,

But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street.

At least when I asked them that's what I was told,

So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,

But for all that I found there I might as well be

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writing a wish you expressed

As to how the fine ladies in London are dressed,

Well if you'll believe me, when asked to a ball,

They don't wear no top to their dresses at all.

Oh I've seen them meself and you could not in truth,

Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath.

Don't be starting such fashions, oh no, Mary dear,

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I've seen England's king from the top of a bus

And I've never known him, but he means to know us.

And tho' by the Saxon we once were oppressed,

Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest.

And now that he's visited Erin's green shore

We'll be much better friends than we've been heretofore

When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin, of course,

Well, now he is here at the head of the Force.

I met him today, I was crossing the Strand,

And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand.

And there we stood talkin' of days that are gone,

While the whole population of London looked on.

But for all these great powers he's wishful like me,

To be back where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here, oh, never you mind,

With beautiful shapes nature never designed,

And lovely complexions all roses and cream,

But let me remark with regard to the same

That if of those roses you ventured to sip,

The colours might all come away on your lip,

So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

-o0o-

No.91

Sunset

Florence Peacock 

(dates not known)

"The setting sun of old age ever gilds with rosy tints the days gone by."

The setting sun of life gilds with its rays

The unforgotten but far distant days,

The days when youth and hope walked hand in hand.

It sheds around the past a rosy glow,

That past which never was a present, though

On looking back o'er life it seems to stand

Bathed in a crimson glory,--and old age

Lingers with loving fondness o'er the page

Thus lighted up by memory's golden rays.

-o0o-