 2. Thomas Moore by Lord Byron From the World's Best Poetry, Volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin To Thomas Moore My boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea. But before I go, Tom Moore, here's a double health to thee. Here's a sigh to those who love me, and a smile to those who hate. And whatever sky is above me, here's a heart for every fate. 3. Though the ocean roar round me, yet it still shall bear me on, Though a desert should surround me, it hath springs that may be one. Work the last drop in the well, as I guest upon the brink, And my fainting spirit fell, it is to thee that I would drink. With that water as this wine, the libation I would pour Should be peace with thine and mine, and health to thee, Tom Moore. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Shelly by Alexander Hayjab From the World's Best Poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive in Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Shelly The odour of a rose, light of a star, The essence of a flame blown on by wind, That lights and warms all near it, Land and kind, that I consumes itself, As though at war with what supports and feeds it. From afar it draws its life, but evermore inclined To leap into the flame that makes men blind, Who seek the secret of all things that are. Such were thou, Shelly, bound for ariest goal, Interpreter of quintessential things, Who mounted ever up on eagle-wings of fantasy, Had aimed at heaven and stole Promethean fire For men to be as gods, and dwell in free, aerial abodes. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Memo Rebilia by Robert Browning From the World's Best Poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive in Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia Memo Rebilia Ah, did you once see Shelly plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems and new! But you were living before that, And also you are living after, And the memory I started at, My starting moves your laughter. I crossed the moor with the name of its own, And the certain use in the world, no doubt, Yet a hand's breath of it shines alone, With the blank miles round about. For there I picked up on the heather, And there I put inside my breast, A molted feather, an eagle feather, Well, I forget the rest. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Byron from the Course of Time, Book 4 by Robert Pollock From the World's Best Poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive in Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin Byron from the Course of Time, Book 4 He touched his harp, A nation's herd entranced, A some vast river of unfailing source, Rapid, exhaustless, deep his numbers flowed, And opened new fountains in the human heart, Where fancy halted weary in her flight. In other men his fresh as morning rose, And soared untrodden heights and seemed at home. Where angels bashful looked, others, though great, Beneath their argument seemed struggling, wiles, He from above descending stooped to touch, The loftiest thought unproudly stooped as though, It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self he seemed an old acquaintance Free to jest at will with all her glorious majesty. He laid his hand upon the ocean's main, And played familiar with his hoary locks, Stood on the alps, stood on the apennines, And with the thunder talked as friend to friend, And wove his garland of the lightning's wing. In sportive twist the lightning's fiery wing, Which as the footsteps of the dreadful god, Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seen'd. Then turned, and with the grasshopper who sung, His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. Sons, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were. Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, And storms, his brothers, younger brothers, Whom he scarce as equals deemed, or passions of all men, The wild, and tame, the gentle, and severe, All thoughts, or maxims sacred and profane, Or creeds, or seasons, time, eternity, All that was hated, and all that was dear, All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man, He tossed about, as tempest withered leaves, And smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. With terror now he froze the cowering blood, And now dissolved the heart in tenderness. Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself, But back into his soul retired alone. Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously, On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Macaulay as Poet by Walter Savage Landor From the world's best poetry, volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1, Read for LibriVox.org by Adrien Stevens. Macaulay as Poet. The dreamy rhymas measured snore, Falls heavy on our ears no more, And by long strides are left behind The dear delights of womankind, Who wage their battles like their loves, In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, And have achieved their crowning work When they have trust and skewered a Turk. Another comes with stout a tread, And stalks among the stately a dead. He rushes on, and hails by turns High-crested scot, Wood-breasted burns, And shows the British youth, Who ne'er will lag behind, What Romans were, When all the tuskens and their lars Shouted and shook the towers of Mars. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the departure of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford, for Naples, By William Wordsworth, From the world's best poetry, volume 7, of a narrative part one, Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. On the departure of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford, for Naples. A trouble not of clouds or weeping rain Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered hangs our Eldon's triple height. Spirits of power assembled there Complain for kindred power departing from Their sight, while tweed, best pleased Enchanting a blithe strain, Sirens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye mourners, For the might of the whole world's good wishes With him goes. Blessings and prayers, a nobler retinue Than septored king, or laurel'd conqueror knows. Follow this wondrous potentate. Be true ye winds of ocean, and the Midlands sea, Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The gentlest child that ever mirth Gave to be reared by sorrow. Tis hard, while raised half-green, half-gold, Through vernal boughs outburning, And streams like diamond mirrors hold To summer's face returning. To say we're thankful, that his sleep Shall never more be lighter In whose sweet-tongued companionship Stream a bower and beam grow brighter. But all the more intensely true, His soul gave out each feature Of elemental love each hue And grace of golden nature. The deeper still, beneath it all, Lurked the keen jags of anguish. The more the laurels clasped his brow, Their poison made it languish. Seemed it that, like the nightingale Of his own mournful singing, Tendre would his song prevail While most the thorn was stinging. So never to the desert-worn Did fount bring freshness deeper, Than this his placid rest this morn Has brought the shrouded sleeper. That rest may lap his weary head, Where Charles choked the city, Of where mid-woodlands by his bed The rain shall wake its ditty. But near or far, while evening-star Is dear to hearts regretting, Around that spotted, myering thought Shall hover, unforgettable. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Burns a poet's epitaph. Stop mortal, hear thy brother lies, The poet of the poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow and the moor. His teachers were the torn-heart's wail, The tyrant and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, the palace, and the grave. Sin met thy brother everywhere, And is thy brother blamed. From passion, danger, doubt, and care He no exemption claimed. The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, He fear to scorn or hate, But honouring in a peasant's form The equal of the great, He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes The poor man's little moor, Yet loath the haughty wretch That takes from plundered labour's store. A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare, Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Burns on receiving a sprig of heather in Blossom By John Greenleaf Whittier From the world's best poetry volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya. Burns on receiving a sprig of heather in Blossom No more these simple flowers belong to Scottish maid and lover Sown in the common soil of song They bloom the wide world over. In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, The minstrel and the heather, The deathless singer and the flowers he sang of Live together. Wild heather bells and Robert Burns The moorland flower and peasant, How at their mention memory turns Her page is old and pleasant. The grey sky wears again its gold and purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold The dews of boyhood's mourning. The dews that wash the dust and soil From off the wings of pleasure, The sky that fleck the ground of toil With golden threads of leisure. I call to mind the summer day The early harvest mowing, The sky with sun and clouds at play, And flowers with breezes blowing. I hear the blackbird in the corn, The low-cost in the haying, And like the fabled hunter's horn Old tunes my heart is playing. How oft that day with fond delay I sought the maple's shadow And sang with Burns the hours away, Forgetful of the meadow. Bees hummed, birds twittered, Overhead I heard the squirrel sleeping, The good dog listened while I read, And wagged his tail in keeping. I watched him while in sportive mood I read the toad dog's story, And half-believed he understood The poet's allegory. Sweet day, sweet songs, The golden hours grew brighter for that singing, From brook and bird and meadow-flowers A dearer welcome bringing. New light on home-scene nature beamed, New glory over woman, And daily life and duty seemed No longer poor and common. I woke to find the simple truth Of fact and feeling better Than all the dreams that held my youth A still-repining debtor. That nature gives her handmaid Art the themes of sweet discoursing, The tender idols of the heart In every tongue rehearsing. Why dreams of lands of gold and pearl Of loving knight and lady When farmer-boy and barefoot girl Were wandering there already? I saw through all familiar things The romance underlying, The joys and griefs that plume the wings Of fancy skyward flying. I saw the same blithe they return The same sweet fall of even That rose on wooded craigie-burn And sank on crystal-deven. I matched with Scotland's heathery hills The sweet briar and the clover, With air and dune my native rills Their wood-hins chanting over. Over rank and pomp as he had seen I saw the man uprising, No longer common or unclean The child of gods baptising. With clearer eyes I saw the word Of life among the lowly The Bible at his cotter's half Had made my own more holy. And if at times an evil strain To lawless love appealing Broke in upon the sweet refrain Of pure and healthful feeling, It died upon the eye and ear No inward answer gaining, No heart had eye to see or hear The discord and the staining. Let those who never erred Forget his worth in vain bewailings. Sweet soul of song, I own my debt Uncanceled by his failings. Lament to will the ribbled line Which tells his lapse from beauty How kiss the maddening lips of wine Or wanton ones of beauty. But think, while false that shade Between the airing one and heaven, That he who loved the model in Like her may be forgiven. Not his the song Whose sundress chime eternal echoes render The mournful Tuskens haunted rhyme And Milton's starry splendour. But who his human heart has laid To nature's bosom nearer? Who sweetened toil like him Or paid to love a tribute dearer? So all his tuneful art How strong the human feeling gushes The very moonlight of his song Is warm with smiles and blushes. Give lettered pomp to teeth of time, So Bonnie Dune, but Terry, Blot out the epic stately rhyme, But spare his highland merry. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To Benjamin Robert Hayden by John Keats From the world's best poetry, Volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1. Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya. To Benjamin Robert Hayden. Great spirits now on earth are sojourning, He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on hell valiant summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from archangel's wing. He of the rose, the violet, the spring, The social smile, the chain for freedom's sake, And lo, whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than raffles whispering, And other spirits there are Standing apart upon the forehead of the age to come. These, these will give the world Another heart, and other pulses. Hear ye not the hum of mighty workings, Listen a while, ye nations, and be dumb. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On a Portrait of Wordsworth by B. R. Hayden By Elizabeth Barrett Browning From the world's best poetry, Volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1. Read for LibriVox.org by Adrienne Stevens On a Portrait of Wordsworth by B. R. Hayden Wordsworth, upon hell valent, Let the cloud ebb audibly along the mountain wind, Then break against the rock, and show behind the lowland valleys Floating up to crowd the scents with beauty. He, with forehead bowed, and humble-lidded eyes As one inclined before the sovereign thought of his own mind, And very meek, with inspirations proud, Takes here his rightful place as poet-priest By the high altar, singing prayer, and prayer to the higher heavens. A noble vision free, our Hayden's hand hath flung out from the mist. No Portrait this, with academic air. This is the poet, and his poetry. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lost Leader by Robert Browning From the World's Best Poetry, Volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1. Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin The Lost Leader Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, Found the one gift which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs, who so little allowed, How all our copper had gone for his service, Rags, with a purple, his heart had been proud. We that had loved him so, followed him, Honoured him, lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear essence, Made him our patent to live and to die. Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley were with us, they watched from their graves, He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves. We shall march prospering, not through his presence, Songs may inspire us, not from his lear, Deeds will be done while he boasts his cohescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God. Life's night begins, let him never come back to us. There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part, the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again, Best fight on well, for we taught him, strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own, Then let him receive the new knowledge and waiters, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne. End of poem Footnote Bitter attack, famous for its invective, Was made by Browning, 1845 on Wordsworth, After the latter had accepted the post of Poet Laureate, 1843. Thus, in Browning's view, Deserting the people and selling himself to the government. Wordsworth's only official poem, however, Was on the installation of Albert, Prince Consort, As Chancellor of Cambridge University in 1847, And in 1850 he died, So that the protest of Browning was not justified. Indeed, in 1875 Browning himself wrote, I did in my hasty youth presume to use The great and venerated personality of Wordsworth As a sort of painter's model, One from which this or the other particular feature May be selected and turned to account. Had I intended more, I should not have talked about Handfuls of silver and bits of ribbon. These never influenced the change Of politics in the great poet, Whose defection nevertheless Was to my juvenile apprehension And even mature consideration An event to be deplored. End of footnote This recording is in the public domain. Memorial Verses, April 1850 By Matthew Arnold From the world's best poetry volume 7 Descriptive in narrative part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Memorial Verses, April 1850 Goethe in Weimar sleeps And Greece long since So Byron struggles cease But one such death remained to come The last poetic voice is dumb We stand today by Wordsworth's tomb When Byron's eyes were shut in death We bowed our head and held our breath He taught us little, But our soul had felt him Like the thunder's roll With shivering heart to the strife We saw of passion with eternal law And yet with reverential awe We watched the fount of fiery life Which served for that titanic strife When Goethe's death was told, we said Sank then is Europe's sages' head Physician of the Iron Age Goethe has done his pilgrimage He took the suffering human race He read each wound, each weakness clear And struck his finger on the place And said, thou alest here and here He looked on Europe's dying hour A fitful dream and feverish power His eye plunged down the welting strife The turmoil of expiring life He said, the end is everywhere Art still has truth Take refuge there And he was happy If to know causes of things And far below his feet to see The lurid flow of terror And insane distress And headlong fate be happiness And Wordsworth pale ghosts rejoice For never has such soothing voice Been to your shadowy world conveyed Thirst at morn some wandering shade Heard the clear song of Orpheus Come through Hades and the mournful gloom Wordsworth has gone from us, and ye Ah, may ye feel his voice as we Ye too upon a wintery climb Had fallen on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears He found us when the age had bound Our souls and its benumbing round He spoke and loosed our hearts and tears He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth Smiles broke from us and we had ease The hills were round us And the breeze went over the sunlit fields again Our foreheads felt the wind and rain Our youth returned For there was shed on spirits That had long been dead Spirits dried up and closely furled The freshness of the early world Ah, since dark days still bright to light Man's prudence and man's fiery might Time may restore us in his course Get his sage mind and baron's force But where will Yerp's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power Others will teach us how to dare And against fear our breast to steal Others will strengthen us to bear But who ah, who will make us feel The cloud of mortal destiny Others will front it fearlessly But who, like him, will put it by Keep fresh the grass upon his grave Orotha, with thy living wave Sing him thy best For few or none hears thy voice right Now he is gone End of poem This recording is in the public domain From Wordsworth's Grave by William Watson From the world's best poetry volume seven Descripted in the narrative part one Read for LibriWalks.org by Thomas Peter From Wordsworth's Grave Poet who sleepest by this wandering wave When thou wast born What birth gift hath thou then? To thee what wealth was that the immortals gave The wealth thou gaveest in thy turn to men Not Milton's keen, translunar music thine Nor Shakespeare's cloudless, boundless human view Not Shelly's flush of rose on Peake's divine Nor yet the wizard twilight collerage new What hadst thou that could make so large in men's For all thou hadst not, and thy peers possessed Motion and fire, swift means to radiant ends Thou hadst for weary feet the gift of rest From Shelly's dazzling glow or thunderous haze From Byron's tempest anger, tempest mirth Men turn to thee and found Not blast and blaze, tumult of tottering heavens But peace on earth Nor peace that grows by leaf, scentless flower There in white langurs to decline and cease But peace whose names are also rapture, power, clear sight, and love For these are parts of peace End of poem This recording is in the public domain In memory of Walter Savage Landor by Algernon Charles Swinburne From The World's Best Poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada In memory of Walter Savage Landor Back to the flower town side by side The bright months bring newborn, the bridegroom and the bride Freedom and spring The sweet land laughs from sea to sea Filled full of sun All things come back to her, being free All things but one In many a tender wheaten plot flowers that were dead live And old suns revive But not that holier head By this white-wandering waste of sea far north I hear one face shall never turn to me as once this year Shall never smile and turn and rest on mine as there Nor one most sacred hand be pressed upon my hair I come as one whose thoughts half linger, half run before The youngest to the oldest singer that England bore I found him whom I shall not find till all grief end In holiest age, our mightiest mind, father and friend But thou, if anything endure, if hope there be O spirit that man's life left pure, man's death set free Not with disdain of days that were look earthward now Let dreams revive the reverent hair, the imperial brow Come back in sleep, for in the life where thou art not We find none like thee, time and strife, and the world's lot Move thee no more, but love at last and reverent heart May move thee, royal and released soul as thou art And thou, his Florence, to thy trust receive and keep Keep safe his dedicated dust, his sacred sleep So shall thy lovers come from far, mix with thy name As morning star with evening star his faultless fame Algernon Charles Swinburne End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Welcome to Boz. on his first visit to the West by W. H. Venable From the world's best poetry, Volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens A Welcome to Boz. on his first visit to the West Welcome as artist, come as guest, Welcome to the expectant West Hero of the charmed pen, loved of children, loved of men We have felt thy spell for years, oft with laughter, oft with tears Thou has touched the tenderest part of our inmost hidden heart We have fixed our eager gaze on thy pages, nights and days Wishing as we turn them o'er, like poor Oliver, for more And the creatures of thy brain in our memory remain Till through them we seem to be old acquaintances of thee Much we hold it thee to greet gladly, sit we at thy feet On thy features we would look as upon a living book And thy voice would grateful hear, glad to feel that Boz were near That his veritable soul held us by direct control Therefore, author love the best, welcome, welcome to the West In immortal Weller's name, by McCorber's deathless fame By the flogging reeked on-squares, by Job Trotter's fluent tears By the beadle-bumbles fate at the hands of Vixen mate By the famous Pickwick Club, by the dream of Gabriel Grubb In the name of Snotgrass's muse, Tubman's amorous interviews Winkle's ludicrous mishaps, and the fat boy's countless naps By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, by Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer In the name of Newman Knox, Rither Thames and London Fox Richard Swiveller's excess, Feasting with the Marchiness By Jack Bunsby's oracles, by the chime of Christmas bells By the cricket on the hearth, Scrooge's frown and crotchet's mirth By spread tables and good cheer, Wayside inns and pots of beer Hostess Plump and Jolly Host, Coaches for the Turnpike Post Chambermaids in love with boots, Toodles, Traddles, Tappley, Toots, Yali, Varden, Mr. Dick, Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick, Snavelicci, Lilyvik, Mantellini's predilections To transfer his dem afflictions, Potsnap, Pexnip, Chuzzlewit, Quilp and Simon Tepperit, Wegg and Boffin, Smike and Paul, Nell and Jenny Wren and all Be not, Sari Gamp, Forgot, No, Nor Pegatey and Trot By poor Barnaby and Grip, Flora, Dora, Di and Gip, Peri-bingle, Pinch and Pip Welcome, long-expected guest, Welcome, Dickens, to the West In the name of gentle Nell, Child of Light, Beloved While, Weeping, did we not behold Roses on her bosom cold, Better we for every tear Shed beside her snowy beer By the mournful group that played Round the grave where Smike was laid By the life of Tiny Tim And the lesson taught by him Asking in his plaintive tone God to bless us every one By the sounding waves that bore Little Paul to heaven's shore By thy yearning for the human Good in every man and woman By each noble deed and word That thy storybooks record And each noble sentiment Dickens to the world hath lent By the effort thou hast made Truth and true reform to aid By thy hope of man's relief Finally from wanton grief By thy never-failing trust That the God of love is just We would meet and welcome The preacher of humanity Welcome fills the throbbing breast Of the sympathetic West End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Dickens in Camp by Brett Hart From the world's best poetry volume seven Descriptive and narrative part one Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Dickens in Camp Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting The river sang below The dim sierras far beyond Uplifting their minarets of snow The roaring campfire with rude humour Painted the ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth till one arose And from his pack scant treasure A hoarded volume drew And cards were dropped from hens Of listless leisure to hear the tale anew And then, while round them shadows gathered faster And as the firelight fell He read aloud the book who were in the master Had writ of little knell Perhaps was boyish fancy For the reader was youngest of them all But as he read from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall The fir trees gathering closer in the shadows Listened in every spray while the whole camp with a knell On English meadows wandered and lost their way And so in mountain solitudes, or taken as by some spell divine Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire And he who wrought that spell Ah, towering pine and stately kentish spire Ye have one tale to tell Lost is that camp but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hot vine's incense all the pence of glory That fills the kentish hills And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths entwine Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly The spray of western pine End of poem This recording is in the public domain Dickens by Algernon Charles Swinburne From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens Dickens, chief in thy generation, born of men Whom English praise acclaimed as English-born With eyes that matched the worldwide eyes of mourn For gleam of tears or laughter tenderest then When thoughts of children warmed their light Or when reverence of age with love and labour worn Or godlike pity fired with godlike scorn Shot through them flame that winged thy swift live pen Where stars and suns that we beheld not burn Higher even than here, though highest was here thy place Love sees thy spirit laugh and speak and shine With Shakespeare and the soft bright soul of stern And Fielding's kindliest might and Goldsmith's grace Scarce one more loved or worthier than thine End of poem This recording is in the public domain To Thackeray by Richard Moncton Milne's Lord Houghton From the world's best poetry, Volume 7 Descript of a Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter To Thackeray O gentler censer of our age Prime master of our ampler tongue Whose word of wit and generous page Were never wroth except with wrong Fielding without the manor's dross Scott with the spirit's larger room What prelate deems thy grave his loss What Halifax erects thy tomb But it may be he who could so draw The hidden great, the humble wise Yielding with them to God's good law Makes the pantheon where he lies End of poem This recording is in the public domain Tenison by Thomas Bailey Aldridge From the world's best poetry, Volume 7 Descript of a Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja Tenison Shakespeare and Milton What third blazoned name Shall lips of after-ages link to these His who, beside the wild and circling seas Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim For three score years whose word of praise was fame Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities What strain was his in that Crimean war A bugle-call in battle, a low breath Plain-tive and sweet above the fields of death So year by year the music rolled afar From yook-sine wastes to flowery candahar Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath Others shall have their little space of time Their proper niche and bust then fade away Into the darkness, poets of a day But thou, O builder of a ne'ering rhyme Thou shalt not pass, thy fame in every climb On earth shall live where sex and speech has sway Waft me this verse across the wind to see Through light and dark, through mist and blinding sleet O wintry winds, and lay it at his feet Though the poor gift betray my poverty At his feet lay it, it may chance that he Will find no gift where reverence is unmeet And the poem, this recording is in the public domain Lacrimai Musarum, 6th of October, 1892 by William Watson From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens Lacrimai Musarum, 6th of October, 1892 Lo, like an others, lies the laurel's head The life that seemed a perfect song is o'er Carry the last great bard to his last bed Land that he loved, thy noblest voices mute Land that he loved, that loved him Nevermore, meadow of thine smooth lawn or wild seashore Gardens of odorous bloom and tremulous fruit O woodlands old, like druid couches spread The master's feet shall tread This little rift hath rent the faultless loot The singer of undying songs is dead Lo, in this season, pensive hue and grave While fades and falls the doomed reluctant leaf From withered earth's fantastic coronal With wandering sighs of forest and of wave Mingles the murmur of a people's grief For him whose leaf shall fade not Either fall he hath fared forth Beyond these suns and showers For us the autumn glow, the autumn flame And soon the winter silent shall be ours Him, the eternal spring of fadeless fame Crowns with no mortal flowers Wrapped though he be from us Virgil salutes him and theocratus Catullus, mightiest-brained Lucretius Each greets him, their brother, on the Stygian beach Proudly a gaunt right hand doth dante reach Milton and Wordsworth bid him welcome home Bright keats to touch his raiment doth beseech Coleridge, his locks asperced with fairy foam Calm Spencer, Chaucer, Suave His equal friendship crave And godlike spirits hail him guest In speech of Athens, Florence, Weimar, Stratford, Rome What needs his laurel, our ephemeral tears To save from visitation of decay Not in his temporal sunlight, now, that bay Blooms, not perishable, mundane ears Singes he with lips of transitory clay For he hath joined the chorus of his peers In habitations of the perfect day His earthly notes, a heavenly audience hears And more melodious are henceforth the spheres Enriched with music stolen from earth away He hath returned to regions whence he came Him doth the spirit divine Of universal loveliness reclaim All nature is his shrine Seek him henceforth in the wind and sea In earth's and air's emotion or repose In every star's august serenity And in the rapture of the flaming rose There seek him, if ye would not seek in vain There, in the rhythm and music of the whole Yea, and forever in the human soul Made stronger and more beauteous by his strain For lo, creation self is one great choir And what is nature's order, but the rhyme Where two the worlds keep time And all things move with all things from their prime Who shall expound the mystery of the lie In far retreats of elemental mind Obscurely comes and goes the imperative breath of song That, as the wind, is trackless And oblivious whence it blows Demand of lilies, wherefore they are white Extort her crimson secret from the rose But ask not of the muse That she disclose the meaning of the riddle of her might Somewhat of all things sealed and reckonedite Save the enigma of herself, she knows The master could not tell, with all his law Wherefore he sang, or whence the mandate sped Even as the linnet sings, though I, he said Ah, rather as the imperial nightingale That held in chance the ancient attic shore And charms the ages with the notes That all woodland chants immortally prevail And now, from our vain plaudits greatly fled He with divine assailants dwells instead And on no earthly sea with transient roar Unto no earthly airs he trims his sail But far beyond our vision and our hail Is heard forever and is seen no more No more, oh never now Lord of the lofty and the tranquil brow Whereon, nor snows of time have fallen Nor winchy rhyme shall men behold thee Sage and mage sublime Once in his youth obscure The maker of this verse which shall endure By splendour of its theme that cannot die Beheld thee, eye to eye, and touched through thee The hand of every hero of thy race divine Even to the sire of all the laurel'd line The sightless wanderer on the Ionian strand With soul as healthful as the poignant brine Why does his skies and radiant as his seas Starry from haunts of his familiars nine Glorious my Onides Yet I beheld thee, and behold thee yet Thou hast forgotten, but can I forget The accents of thy pure and sovereign tongue Are they not ever goldenly impressed On memory's palimpsest? I see the wizard locks like night that hung I tread the floor, thy hallowing feet have trod I see the hands, a nation's lyre that strung The eyes that looked through life and gazed on God The seasons change, the winds they shift and veer The grass of yesteryear is dead The birds depart, the groves decay Empires dissolve, and peoples disappear Song passes not away, captains and conquerors Leave a little dust, a king's adubious legend Of their reign, the swords of caesars They are less than rust, the poet doth remain Dead is Augustus, marrow is live And thou, the mantuan of our age And climb like Virgil, shout thy race And tongue survive, bequeathing no less Honeyed words to time, embalmed in amber Of eternal rhyme, and rich with sweets from every Muses hive, while to the measure of the cosmic Rune, for pure ears thou shalt thy lyre attune And heed no more the hum of idle praise In that great calm our tumults cannot reach Master, who crownst our immolodious days With flower of perfect speech End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Robert Browning by Walter Savage Landor From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada Robert Browning There is delight in singing, though none here Beside the singer, and there is delight in praising Though the praiser sit alone, and see the praise Far off him, far above Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's Therefore on him no speech, and brief for thee Browning, since Chaucer was alive in hail No man hath walked along our roads with steps so active So inquiring eye, or tongue so varied in discourse But warmer climbs give brighter plumage, stronger wing The breeze of alpine's heights thou placed with Born on beyond Sorrento and Amalfi Where the siren waits thee, singing song for song Walter Savage Landor End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Burial of Robert Browning by Michael Field From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens The Burial of Robert Browning Upon St. Michael's Isle, they laid him For a while, that he might feel the ocean's full embrace And wedded be to that wide sea The subject and the passion of his race As Thetis, from some lovely underground Springing, she girds him round with lapping sound And silent space, then, on more honour-bent She sews the firmament and bids the hovering Western clouds combine to spread their sable To amber on her lustrous brine It might not be, he should lie free Forever in the soft light of the sea For, lo, one came, of step more slow than fame Stooped over him, we heard her breathe his name And as the light drew back, bore him across The trek of the subservient waves That dare not foil that veiled maternal figure Of its spoil, ah, where will she put by Her journeying majesty? She hath left the lands of the air and sun She will take no rest till her course be run Follow her far, follow her fast Until, at last, with an a narrow Transcept led low, she unwraps her face To pawl her dead. Thetis England, who has travelled far England, who brings fresh splendour To her galaxy of kings We kiss her feet, her hands Where eloquent she stands Nor dare to lend a waleful choir About the poet Dum, who is become Part of the glory that her sons would bleed To say from scar, yea, hers in very deed As Runnymede or Trafalgar. End of Perm, this recording is in the public domain Joseph Rodman Drake, died in New York, September 1820 By Fitzgreen Halleck, from the world's best poetry Volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada Joseph Rodman Drake, died in New York, September 1820 Green be the turf above thee, friend of my better days None knew thee but to love thee, nor named thee but to praise Tears fell when thou worked dying From eyes unused to weep And long where thou art lying Will tears the cold turf steep When hearts whose truth was proven Like thine are laid in earth There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth And I who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine Who shared thy joy and sorrow Whose wheel and woe were thine It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow But I've in vain essayed it And feel I cannot now While memory bids me weep thee Nor thoughts nor words are free The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee Fitzgreen Halleck End of poem This recording is in the public domain Fitzgreen Halleck by John Greenleaf Whittier From the world's best poetry volume seven Descript of a narrative part one Read for LibVox.org by Thomas Peter Fitzgreen Halleck Read at the unveiling of his statue In Central Park May 1877 Among the graven shapes To whom thy civic wreaths belong O city of his love Make room for one whose gift was song Not his the soldier's sword to wield Nor his the helm of state Nor glory of the stricken field Nor triumph of debate In common ways with common men He served his race and time As well as if his clerkly pen Had never danced to rhyme If in the thronged and noisy mart The muses found their son Could any say his tuneful art A duty left undone He toiled and sang And year by year men found their homes More sweet and through a tenderer atmosphere Looked down the brick walled street The Greeks wild onset walled street Knew the Red King walked broadway And only castles rose as blue From palisades to bay There a city by the sea A praise is veiled with the reverent hands And mingle with thy own the praise And pride of other lands Let Greece's fiery lyric breathe Above her hero earns And Scotland, with her holly Wreathe the flowers he called for burns O stately stand thy palace walls Thy tall ships ride the seas Today thy poet's name recalls A prouder thought than these Not lest thy pulse of trade shall beat Nor lest thy tall fleets swim That shaded square and dusty street Are classic ground through him Alive he loved Like all who sing the echoes of his song Too late the tardy mead we bring The praise delayed so long Too late alas Of all who knew the living man Today before his unveiled face How few make bare their locks of grey Our lips of praise must soon be done Our grateful eyes be dim Our brothers of the days to come Take tender charge of him New hands the wires of song may sweep New voices challenge fame But let no mass of year or creep The lines of Halic's name End of poem This recording is in the public domain Pose Cottage at Fordham By John Henry Boner From the world's best poetry volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative Part 1 Read for LibreVonx.org by Craig Franklin Pose Cottage at Fordham Here lived the soul enchanted By melody of song Here dwelt the spirit haunted By a demoniac throng Here sang the lips elated Here grief and death were sated Here loved and here unmated Was he so frail so strong? Here wintry winds and cheerless The dying firelight blew While he whose song was pealous Drenched the drear midnight through And from dull embers chilling Crept shadows darkly filling The silent place and thrilling His fancy as they grew Here with brow bared to heaven In starry night he stood With a lost star of seven Feeling sad brotherhood Here in the sobbing showers He heard suspected powers Shriek through the stormy wood From visions of Apollo And of Astart's bliss He gazed into the hollow And hopeless veil of diss And though heaven was surrounded By heaven it still was mounted With graves his soul had sounded The Dolores abyss Proud mad but not defiant He touched at heaven and hell Fate found a rare soul pliant And wrung her changes well Alternately his lyre Stranded with strings of fire Led Ersmos happy choir Or flashed with Israel No singer of old story Looting a custom glaze No harper for new glory No mendicant for praise He struck his cords and splendid Wherein were fiercely blended Tones that unfinished ended With his unfinished days Here through this lowly portal Made sacred by his name Unheralded immortal The mortal went and came And fate that then denied him An envy that decried him And malice that belied him Have senataft his fame End of poem This recording is in the public domain On the death of Thomas Carlisle and George Eliot By Algernon Charles Swinburne From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya On the death of Thomas Carlisle and George Eliot Two souls diverse Out of our human sight pass Followed one with love The stormy sophist with his mouth of thunder Clothes with loud words and mantled In the might of darkness and magnificence of night And one whose eye could smite the night in thunder Searching if light or no light were there under And found in love of loving-kindness light Duty divine and sought with eyes of fire Still following righteousness with deep desire Sean's soul and stern before her and above Sure stars and soul to steer by But more sweet Sean lowered the loveliest lamp For earthly feet, the light of little children And their love End of poem This recording is in the public domain Carlisle and Emerson By Montgomery Scheuler From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens Carlisle and Emerson A bale fire kindled in the night By night ablaze, by day a cloud With flame and smoke all England woke It climbed so high, it roared so loud While over Massachusetts pines Approze a white and steadfast star And many a night it hung unwatched It shone so still, it seemed so far But light is fire, and fire is light And mariners are glad for these The torch that flares along the coast The star that beams above the seas End of poem This recording is in the public domain Emerson, Concord By Sarah Chauncey Woolsey Susan Coolidge From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada Emerson, Concord Farther horizons every year O tossing pines which surge and wave Above the poet's just-made grave And waken for his sleeping ear the music That he loved to hear Through summer's sun and winter's chill With purpose staunch and dauntless will Sped by a noble discontent you climb Toward the blue firmament Climb as the winds climb Mounting high the viewless ladders of the sky Spurning our lower atmosphere Heavy with size and dense with night And urging upward year by year To ampler air, divine or light Farther horizons every year Beneath you pass the tribes of men Your gracious boughs or shadow them You hear but do not seem to heed Their jarring speech, their faulty creed Your roots are firmly set in soil One from their humming paths of toil Content their lives to watch and share To serve them shelter and up-bear Yet but to win an upward way And larger gift of heaven than they Benignant view and attitude Close knowledge of celestial sign Still working for all earthly good While pressing on to the divine Farther horizons every year So he by reverent heads just laid beneath The layers of waving shade Climbed as you climb the upward way Knowing not boundary nor stay His eyes surcharged with heavenly lights His senses steeped in heavenly sights His soul attuned to heavenly keys How should he pause for rest or ease Or turn his winged feet again To share the common feasts of men He blessed them with his word and smile But still above their fickle moods Wooing, constraining him The while beckoned with shining altitudes Farther horizons every year To what immeasurable height What clear irradiance of light What far and all transcended goal Hast thou now risen, O steadfast soul We may not follow with our eyes To where the further pathway lies Nor guess what vision, vast and free God keeps in store for souls like thee But still the sentry pines Which wave their bows above thy honoured grave Shall be thy emblems brave and fit Firm-rooted in the stalwart sod Blessing the earth while spurning it Content with nothing short of God Sarah Chansey Wolsey Susan Colage End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There is a Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb, with a whole bale Of isms tied together with rhyme. He might get on alone, spite of Brembles and boulders, but he can't With that bundle he has on his shoulders. The top of the hill he will near Come nigh reaching, till he learns The distinction, twix singing and preaching. His lyre has some chords That would ring pretty well, but he'd rather By half make a drum of the shell And rattle away till he's old as Methuselum At the head of a march to the last New Jerusalem. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Out from behind this mask To confront his own portrait for The wound dresser in leaves of grass. Out from behind this bending, rough-cut mask These lights and shades, this drama of the whole This common curtain of the face Contained in me, for me, in you For you, in each. This common curtain of the face Contained in me, for me, in you For you, in each, for each. Tretches, sorrows, laughter, tears, oh heaven The passionate teeming plays this curtain hit This glaze of God's serenest, pure as sky This film of Satan's seething pit This heart's geographies map This limitless small continent This soundless sea Out from the convolutions of this globe This subtler, astronomical orb Than sun or moon, than Jupiter, Venus, Mars This condensation of the universe Nay, hear the only universe Hear the idea, all in this mystic Handful wrapped. These burned eyes flashing to you To pass to future time To launch and spin through space Revolving, sidling from these to emanate To you, who ere you are, a look A traveller of thoughts and years Of peace and war, of youth long sped A middling age declining As the first volume of a tale perused And laid away, and this the second Long ventures speculations presently to close Lingering a moment here and now To you, I opposite turn As on the road, or at some crevice Door by chance, or open window Pausing, inclining, bearing my head You especially, I greet, to draw And clinch your soul for once Inseparably with mine, then travel Travel on. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Myself, from the song of myself By Walt Whitman From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org By Craig Franklin Myself, from the song of myself By Walt Whitman I celebrate myself and sing myself And what I assume, you shall assume For every atom belonging to me As good belongs to you I loaf and invite my soul I lean and loaf at my ease Observing a spear of summer grass My tongue, every atom of my blood Formed from this soil, this air Born here of parents, born here from parents the same I now, thirty-seven years old In perfect health begin Hoping to cease not till death Creeds and schools in abeyance Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are But never forgotten I harbour for good or bad I permit to speak at every hazard Nature without check With original energy End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Hawthorne, by Edmund Clarence Steadman From the world's best poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org By Jason in Canada Hawthorne, harp of New England's song That even in slumber trembled with the touch of poets Who like the four winds from thee waken All harmonies that to thy strings belong Say, wilt thou blame the younger hands too much Which from thy laurel resting place Have taken the crowned one in their hold? There is a name should quicken thee No Carol Hawthorne sang Yet his articulate spirit, like thine own Made answer, quick as flame To each breath of the shore from which he sprang And prose like his was Posey's high tone But he whose quickened eye Saw through New England's life her inmost spirit Her heart and all the stays on which it lent Returns not since he laid the pencil by Whose mystic touch none other shall inherit What though its work unfinished lies Half bent the rainbow's arch Leads out in upper air The shining cataract halfway down the height Breaks into mist The haunting strain that fell on listeners Unaware ends incomplete But through the starry night The ear still waits for what it did not tell Edmund Clarence Steadman End of poem This recording is in the public domain Hawthorne by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow From the world's best poetry volume 7 Descriptive and narrative part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada Hawthorne, how beautiful it was that one bright day In the long week of rain Though all its splendor could not chase away The omnipresent pain The lovely town was white with apple blooms And the great elms overhead dark shadows Wove on their aerial looms Shot through with golden thread Across the meadows By the grey old mants the historic river flowed I was as one who wanders in a trance Unconscious of his road The faces of familiar friends seemed strange Their voices I could hear And yet the words they uttered Seemed to change their meaning to my ear For the one face I looked for was not there The one low voice was mute Only an unseen presence filled the air And baffled my pursuit Now I look back and meadow, mants And stream dimly my thought defines I only see a dream within a dream The hilltop hurst with pines I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone The infinite longings of a troubled breast The voice so like his own There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen And left the tail half-told Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power And the lost clue regain? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain Henry Wadsworth Longfellow End of poem This recording is in the public domain Harriet Beecher Stowe by Paul Lawrence Dunbar From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrienne Stevens Harriet Beecher Stowe She told the story, and the whole world wept At wrongs and cruelties it had not known But for this fearless woman's voice alone She spoke to consciences that long had slept Her message, freedom's clear revales Swept from heedless hovel to complacent throne Command and prophecy were in the tone And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave But both came forth, transfigured from the flame Blessed be the hand that dared be strong to save And blessed be she who in our weakness came Prophet and priestess At one stroke she gave a race to freedom And herself to fame End of poem This recording is in the public domain To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow On his birthday, 27th February, 1867 By James Russell Lowell From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow On his birthday, 27th February, 1867 I need not praise the sweetness of his song Where limpid verse to limpid verse Succeeds smooth as our Charles When, fearing lest he wrong the new moon's Mirage skiff, he slides along Full without noise and whispers in his reeds With loving breath of all the winds His name is blown about the world But to his friends a sweeter secret hides Behind his fame And love steals shyly through the loud acclaim To murmur, a God bless you, and there ends As I muse backward up the checkered years Wherein so much was given, so much was lost Blessings in both kinds such as cheap in tears But hush, this is not for profaner ears Let them drink molten pearls, nor dream the cost Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core As not but nightshade grew upon earth's ground Love turned all his to heart's ease And the more fate tried his bastions She but forced a door Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound Even as a wind-waved fountain swaying Shade seams of mixed race A gray wraith shot with sun So through his trial faith-translucent raid Till darkness, half-dismatured so Betrayed a heart of sunshine that would feign or run Surely if skill and song these shears may stay And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss If our poor life be lengthened by a lay He shall not go, although his presence may And the next age in praise shall double this Long days be his, and each as lusty sweet As gracious natures find his song to be May age steal on with softly cadence'd feet Falling in music, as for him were meat Whose choicest verse is harsher toned than he James Russell Lowell End of poem This recording is in the public domain Longfellow in Memoriam by Austin Dobson From the world's best poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens Longfellow in Memoriam Neck terpem se nektam Degeri, nick kithara karantem Not to be tune-less in old age Ah, surely blessed his pilgrimage Who, in his winter snow, still sings with note As sweet and clear as in the mornings of the year When the first violets blow Blessed, but more blessed, whom summer's heat Whom spring's impulsive stir and beat Have taught no feverish lure Whose muse, benignant and serene Still keeps his autumn chaplet green Because his verse is pure Lie calm, O white and laureate head Lie calm, O dead, that heart not dead Since from the voiceless grave Thy voice shall speak to old and young While song yet speaks our English tongue By Charles or famous wave End of poem, this recording is in the public domain House, by Robert Browning From the world's best poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens House, shall I sonnet sing you About myself? Do I live in a house you would like to see? Is it scant of gear? Has its store of pelf? Unlock my heart with a sonnet key Invite the world, as my bettors have done Take notice, this building remains on view Its suites of reception, every one Its private apartments and bedroom, too For a ticket, apply to the publisher No, thanking the public, I must decline A peep through my window, folk prefer But please you, no foot over threshold of mine I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced And a house stood gaping, nought to bulk, man's eye Wherever he gazed or glanced The whole of the frontage, shaven and sheer The inside gaped, exposed to day Right and wrong and common and queer Bear as the palm of your hand it lay The owner? Oh, he had been crushed no doubt Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth What a parcel of musty old books about He smote, no wonder he lost his health I doubt if he bathed before he dressed A brazier, the pagan, he burned perfumes You see, it is proved what the neighbour's guessed His wife and himself had separate rooms Friends, the good man of the house At least kept house to himself till an earthquake came It is the fall of its frontage permits you to feast On the inside arrangement you praise or blame Outside should suffice for evidence And whoso desires to penetrate deeper Must dive by the spirit sense No optics like yours at any rate Hoity-toity, a street to explore Your house the exception With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart once more Did Shakespeare, if so, the less Shakespeare he End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Art criticism, first bring me Raphael Who alone have seen in all her purity Heaven's virgin queen Alone have felt true beauty, bring me then Titian, enobler of the noblest men Annex the sweet Correggio Nor chastise his little cupids for those wicked eyes I want not Ruben's pink puffy bloom Nor Rembrandt's glimmer in a dusty room With those and Poussin's nymph frequented woods His tempered heights and long-drawn solitudes I am content, yet feign would look abroad On one warm sunset of Orsonian Claude End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Anne Hathaway To the idol of my eye and delight of my heart Anne Hathaway, by Anonymous From the world's best poetry volume seven Descript of a narrative part one Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Anne Hathaway To the idol of my eye and delight of my heart Anne Hathaway Footnote, this poem has some times but Without much reason been attributed to Shakespeare End of footnote She be taught, ye feathered throng With love's sweet notes to grace your song To pierce the heart with thrilling lay Listen to mine, Anne Hathaway She hathaway to sing so clear Thebes might wandering stop to hear To melt the sad, make bly the gay And nature charm, Anne Hathaway She hathaway, Anne Hathaway To breathe delight, Anne Hathaway When envy's breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite, fair worth and truth And merit to distress betray To soothe the heart, Anne Hathaway She hathaway to chase despair To heal all grief, to cure all care Turn foulest night to fairest day She knowest font heart, Anne Hathaway She hathaway, Anne Hathaway To make grief bliss, Anne Hathaway Talk not of gems, the orient list The diamond, topaz, emethyst The emerald mild, the ruby gay Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway She hathaway with her bright eye Their various lusters to defy The jewels she and the foil they So sweet to look, Anne Hathaway She hathaway, Anne Hathaway To shame bright gems, Anne Hathaway But were it to my fancy given To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven For though immortal made of clay Angels must love Anne Hathaway She hathaway so to control To rapture the imprisoned soul And sweetest heaven on earth display That to be heaven, Anne Hathaway She hathaway, Anne Hathaway To be heaven's self, Anne Hathaway End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The poet's friend, Lord Bolingbroke From an essay on man, epistle 4 By Alexander Pope From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The poet's friend, Lord Bolingbroke From an essay on man, epistle 4 Come then, my friend, my genius Come along, O master of the poet And the song, and while the muse now stoops Or now ascends to man's low passions Or their glorious ends, teach me, like thee In various nature wise, to fall with dignity With temper rise, formed by thy converse Happily to steer from grave to gay From lively to severe, correct with spirit Elegant with ease, intend to reason Or polite to please. Oh, while along The stream of time thy name expanded Flies and gathers all its fame, say Shall my little bark attend and sail Pursue the triumph and partake the gale When statesmen, heroes, kings In dust repose, whose sons shall Blush their fathers where thy foes Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou word my guide, philosopher And friend, that urged by thee I turned the tuneful art from sounds To things from fancy to the heart For which false mirror held up nature's light Showed airing pride whatever is is right. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Bard's Epitaph by Robert Burns From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descriptive and narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens A Bard's Epitaph Is there a whim-inspired fool Or fast for thought, or hot for rule Or blat to seek, or proud to snow Let him draw near, and o'er this graspy heap Sing, duel, and wrap a tear Is there a bard of rustic song Who, noteless, steals the crowd Among that weakly this area throng Or pass not by But with a threat of feeling strong Here he vassae Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer Yet runs himself life's mad career Wild as the wave, hear, pause And through the starting tear Surveys this grave The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn, and wise to know And keenly felt the friendly glow And sober flame, but thoughtless follies Laid him low, and stained his name Reader, attend whether thy soul Sores fancies flights beyond the pole Or darkly grabs this earthly hole In low pursuit, no prudent, cautious Self-control is wisdom's root End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Chopin by Emma Lazarus From the world's best poetry, volume 7 Descript of the narrative, part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Chopin 1 A dream of interlaking hands A feat tireless to spin the unseen Fairy-wolf of the entangling vaults Bright eye-beams meet Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof Warm perfumes rise The soft, unflickering glow Of branching lights Sets off the changeful charms Of glancing gems, rich stuffs The dazzling snow Of necks uncurchift And bare, clinging arms Hark to the music How beneath the strain of reckless revelry Vibrates and sobs one fundamental chord Of constant pain The pulse beat of the poet's heart that throbs So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice The troubled seas disconsolate deep voice 2. Who shall proclaim the golden fable False of orpheus miracles? This subtle strain above our prose world's sordid loss And gain lightly uplifts us With the rhythmic vaults, the lyric prelude The nocturnal song of love and languor Varied visions rise That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long The seraph soled musician breathes again Eternal eloquence, immortal pain Revive the exalted face we know so well The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame Slowly consuming with its inward flame We stir not, speak not Lest we break the spell 3. A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine As the sad spirit of the evening breeze Throbbing with human passion, yet divine As the wild birds, untutored melodies A voice for him, beneath twilight heavens and dim Who mourneth for his dead Will round him fall the wan and noiseless leaves A voice for him who sees the first green sprout Who hears the call of the first robin on the first spring day A voice for all whom fate hath set apart Who, still misprised, must perish by the way Longing with love for that they lack the art Of their own soul's expression For all these sing the unspoken hope The vague, sad reveries 4. The nature shaped a poet's heart A liar from out his cords, the slightest breeze That blows drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire How shall she cherish him? Behold, she throws this precious, fragile treasure In the whirl of seething passions He is scourged and stung Must dive in storm-vext seas If but one pearl of art or beauty therefrom may be rung No pure-browed pensive nymph his muse shall be An Amazon of thought with sovereign eyes Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldly wise Inspire that elfin, delicate harmony Rich gain for us, but with him is it well The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Prayer of Agassiz by John Greenleaf Whittier From the world's best poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya as the narrator Craig Franklin as the Master The Prayer of Agassiz On the Isle of Penny-Kees Ringed about by sapphire seas Fent by breezes, salt, and cool Stood the Master with his school Oversails that not in vain Wood the west wind's steady strain Line of coasts that low and far Stretched its undulating bar Wings a slant along the rim Of the waves they stoop to skim Rock and Isle and glistening bay Fell the beautiful white day Set the Master to the youth We have come in search of truth Trying with uncertain key Door by door mystery We are reaching through his laws To the garment hem of cause Him, the endless unbegun, the unnameable, the one Light of all our light, the source Life of life and force of force As with fingers of the blind We are groping here to find What the hieroglyphics mean Of the unseen in the scene What the thought which underlies Nature's masking and disguise What it is that hides beneath Blight and bloom and birth and death By past efforts, unavailing Doubt and error, loss and failing Of our weakness made aware On the threshold of our task Let us light and guidance ask Let us pause in silent prayer Then the Master in his place Bowed his head a little space And the leaves by soft air stirred Laps of wave and cry of bird Left the solemn hush unbroken Of that wordless prayer unspoken While it swish on earth unsaid Grows to heaven interpreted As in life's best hours we hear By the Spirit's finer ear His slow voice within us Thus the All-Father hears us And his holy ear we pain With our noisy words and vain Not for him our violence Storming at the gates of sense His the primal language His the eternal silences Even the careless heart was moved And the doubting gave ascent With a gesture reverent To the Master well-beloved As sin-mists are glorified By the light they cannot hide All who gaze upon him saw Through its veil of tender awe How his face was still uplift By the old sweet look of it Hopeful, trustful, full of cheer And the love that casts out fear Who this secret may declare Of that brief unuttered prayer Did the shade before him come Of the inevitable doom Of the end of earth so near And eternity's new year? In the lap of sheltering seas Rests the isle of penny-keys But the Lord of the domain Comes not to his own again Where the eyes that follow fail On a vaster sea his sail Drifts beyond our back and hail Other lips within its bound Shall the laws of life expound Other eyes from rock and shell Read the world's old riddles well But when breezes, light and bland Blow from summer's blossomed land When the air is glad with wings And the blithe song's barrel sings Many an eye with his still face Shall the living ones displace Many an ear the word shall seek He alone could fitly speak And one name forevermore Shall be uttered over and over By the waves that kiss the shore By the curlews whistle send Down the cool, sea-scented air In all voices known to her Nature own her worshipper Half in triumph, half lament Dither love shall tearful turn Friendship pause uncovered there And the wisest reverence learn From the master's silent prayer End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Cain died February 16, 1857 By Fitz James O'Brien From the world's best poetry, Volume 7 Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada Cain died February 16, 1857 Aloft upon old balsatic crag Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the pole Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll around The secret of the mystic zone A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag flutters alone And underneath, upon the lifeless front Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt With a rocky purpose in his soul, Breasted the gathering snows, Clung to the drifting flows, by want beleaguered And by winter chaste, seeking the brother lost Amid that frozen waste. Not many months ago we greeted him, Crowned with the icy Honours of the North, across the land his hard-won fame Went forth, and Maine's deep woods were shaken Lim by limb. His own mild, keystone state, sedate and prim Burst from decorous quiet as he came. Hot southern lips, with eloquence of flame, Sounded in triumph. Texas, wild and grim, proffered its horny hand. The large, lunged west, out from his giant breast Yelled its frank welcome, and from Maine to Maine Jubilant to the sky, thundered the mighty cry To Maine. In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung The reddening roses. All in vain we poured the golden wine, And round the shining Board sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung With the thrice-tripled honours of the feast. Scarce the buds wilted, and the voices ceased Air the pure light that sparkled in his eyes Bright as auroral fires in southern skies Faded and faded, and the brave young heart That the relentless arctic winds had robbed Of all its vital heat in that long quest For the lost captain, now within his breast More and more faintly throbbed. His was the victory, but as his grasp closed On the laurel crown with eager clasp Death launched a whistling dart, and air The thunders of applause were done In his bright eyes closed forever on the sun. Too late, too late the splendid prize he won In the Olympic race of science and of art. Like to some shattered burg that, pale and lone, Drifts from the white north to a tropic zone, And in the burning day wastes peak by peak away Till on some rosy even it dies With sunlight blessing it. So he tranquilly floated to a southern sea, And melted into heaven. He needs no tears who lived a noble life. We will not weep for him who died so well, But we will gather round the hearth, And tell the story of his strife. Such homage suits him well, Better than a funeral pomp or passing bell. What tale of peril and self-sacrifice Prisoned amid the fastness of ice, With hunger howling over the wastes of snow. Night lengthening into months, the ravenous flow Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Crunches his prey. The insufficient share of loathsome food, The lethargy of famine, the despair urging to labour, Nervously pursued, toil done with skinny arms, And faces huge like pallid masks, While dolefully behind glimmered the fading embers Of a mind. That awful hour went through the prostrate-band Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. The whispers of rebellion faint and few at first, But deepening ever till they grew into black Thoughts of murder. Such the throng of horrors found the hero. High the song should be that hymns the noble Part he played. Sinking himself, yet ministering aid to all around him. By a mighty will living defiant of the wants That kill, because his death would seal his Comrades' fate. Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill Those polar waters, dark and desolate. Equal to every trial, every fate he stands Until spring, tardy with relief, Unlocks the icy gate, and the pale Prisoners thread the world once more to the Steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore, Bearing their dying chief. Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold. From royal hands who wooed the nightly state, The knell of old formalities is told, And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. No grander episode doth chivalry hold in all Its annals, back to Charlemagne, That lone vigil of unceasing gain, Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold By the good Christian knight, Alicia Cain. Fitz James O'Brien. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of the world's best poetry, volume 7, Descriptive and Narrative, Part 1.