Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (195 page)

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea

Allan Cunningham (1784–1842)

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,
 
A wind that follows fast
And fills the white and rustling sail
 
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
  
5
 
While like the eagle free
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
 
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
 
I heard a fair one cry;
  
10
But give to me the snoring breeze
 
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my lads,
 
The good ship tight and free —
The world of waters is our home,
  
15
 
And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon horne´d moon,
 
And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!
 
The wind is piping loud;
  
20
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
 
The lightning flashes free —
While the hollow oak our palace is,
 
Our heritage the sea.

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

George Gordon, Lord Byron

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

On the Death of a Young Lady (Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him)

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)

Hush’d are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
  
Not e’en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret’s tomb,
  
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
  
That clay, where once such animation beam’d;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
  
Not worth nor beauty have her life redeem’d.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
  
Or heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
  
Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
  
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
  
Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
  
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain; —
  
I’ll ne’er submission to my God refuse.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
  
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection’s tear,
  
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

(1802)

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: Canto the First

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)

I.

 
Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
 
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!
 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
 
Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill;
 
Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine
 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale - this lowly lay of mine.

II.

 
Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth,
 
Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight;
 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
 
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
 
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
 
Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

 
Childe Harold was he hight: - but whence his name
 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
 
And had been glorious in another day:
 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
 
However mighty in the olden time;
 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
 
Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.

 
Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
 
Disporting there like any other fly,
 
Nor deemed before his little day was done
 
One blast might chill him into misery.
 
But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
 
He felt the fulness of satiety:
 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite’s sad cell.

V.

 
For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run,
 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
 
Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
 
And that loved one, alas, could ne’er be his.
 
Ah, happy she! to ‘scape from him whose kiss
 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
 
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

VI.

 
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
 
’Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
 
But pride congealed the drop within his e’e:
 
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
 
And from his native land resolved to go,
 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
 
 
With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
And e’en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.

 
The Childe departed from his father’s hall;
 
It was a vast and venerable pile;
 
So old, it seemèd only not to fall,
 
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
 
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!
 
Where superstition once had made her den,
 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
 
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

 
Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,
 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold’s brow,
 
As if the memory of some deadly feud
 
Or disappointed passion lurked below:
 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
 
For his was not that open, artless soul
 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;
 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate’er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

 
And none did love him: though to hall and bower
 
He gathered revellers from far and near,
 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
 
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
 
Yea, none did love him - not his lemans dear -
 
But pomp and power alone are woman’s care,
 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

X.

 
Childe Harold had a mother - not forgot,
 
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;
 
Ye, who have known what ’tis to dote upon
 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

XI.

 
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
 
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
 
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
 
And all that mote to luxury invite,
 
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth’s central line.

XII.

 
The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
 
As glad to waft him from his native home;
 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.

 
But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
 
When deemed he no strange ear was listening:
 
And now his fingers o’er it he did fling,
 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he poured his last ‘Good Night.’

Adieu, adieu! my native shore
 
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
 
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
 
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
 
My Native Land - Good Night!

A few short hours, and he will rise
 
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
 
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
 
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
 
My dog howls at the gate.

‘Come hither, hither, my little page:
 
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow’s rage,
 
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
 
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
 
More merrily along.’

‘Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
 
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
 
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
 
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
 
But thee - and One above.

‘My father blessed me fervently,
 
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
 
Till I come back again.’ -
‘Enough, enough, my little lad!
 
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
 
Mine own would not be dry.

‘Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
 
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
 
Or shiver at the gale?’ -
‘Deem’st thou I tremble for my life?
 
Sir Childe, I’m not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
 
Will blanch a faithful cheek.

‘My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
 
Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call,
 
What answer shall she make?’ -
‘Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
 
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
 
Will laugh to flee away.’

For who would trust the seeming sighs
 
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
 
We late saw streaming o’er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
 
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
 
No thing that claims a tear.

And now I’m in the world alone,
 
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
 
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain
 
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
 
He’d tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go
 
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,
 
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
 
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
 
My Native Land - Good Night!

XIV.

 
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
 
And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay.
 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
 
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
 
And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way,
 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer ‘twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.

XV.

 
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
 
What goodly prospects o’er the hills expand!
 
But man would mar them with an impious hand:
 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge
 
‘Gainst those who most transgress his high command,
 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
Gaul’s locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.

XVI.

 
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
 
Her image floating on that noble tide,
 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford
 
A nation swoll’n with ignorance and pride,
 
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword.
To save them from the wrath of Gaul’s unsparing lord.