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# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1829/Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin

From The Casket (Atkinson, Philadelphia), 1829, page 87
ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
O sanctissima, O, purissima,
 Dulcis Virgo Maria!
Mater amata intemerata
Ora, Ora, pro nobis.
Sicilian Mariner's Hymn.
In the deep hour of dreams,
Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea,
 And by the starlight gleams,
Mother of Sorrows! O, I come to thee.
 Unto thy shrine I bear
Night-blooming flowers, like my own heart to lie,  All, all unfolded there,
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.
 For thou that once didst move,
In thy still beauty, through an earthly home,
 Thou know'st the grief, the love,
The fear of woman’s soul; to thee I come.
 Many, and sad, and deep,
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
 Thou too couldst watch and weep—
Hear, gentlest Mother! hear a heart opprest!
 There is a wandering bark,
Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave;  Oh! let thy soft eye mark
His course—be with him, Holiest, guide and save!
 My soul is on that way,
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim,
 Through the long weary day
I walk, o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him.
 Aid him, and me too, aid!
Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess!  On thy weak child is laid
The burthen of too deep a tenderness.
 Too much o'er him is poured
My being's hope—scarce leaving Heaven a part:
 Too fearfully adored,
Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!
 I tremble with a sense
Of grief to be—I hear a warning low—
 Sweet Mother call me hence;
This wild idolatry must end in woe.
 The troubled joy of life,
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known,
 And, worn with feverish strife,
Would fold its wings—take back, take back thine own!
 Hark! how the wind swept by! The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave—
 Hope of the sailor's eye
And maiden's heart, blest Mother, guide and save!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1829

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1829
Compiled From other sources by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin
* Second Sight
* To a Departed Spirit
* The Battle Field
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1829/Second Sight

From The Cornish Magazine, 1828, page 268
SECOND SIGHT.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!  A mournful gift is mine!
A murmur of the soul, which blends
 With the flow of song and wine.
An eye that through the triumph's hour
 Beholds the coming wo,
And dwells upon the faded flower.
 Midst the rich summer's glow.
Ye smile to view fair faces bloom
 Where the father's board is spread;
I see the stillness and the gloom
 Of a home whence all are fled.
I see the wither'd garlands lie
 Forsaken on the earth,
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly
 Through the ringing hall of mirth.
I see the blood-red future stain
 On the warrior's gorgeous crest,
And the bier amidst the bridal train,
 When they come with roses drest.
I hear the still small moan of Time
 Through the ivy-branches made, Where the palace, in its glory's prime,
 With the sunshine stands arrayed.
The thunder of the seas I hear,
 The shriek along the wave,
When the hark sweeps forth, and song and cheer
 Salute the parting brave.
With every breeze a spirit sends
 To me some warning sign;—
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
 A mournful gift is mine!
Oh, prophet heart! thy grief, thy power,  To all deep souls belong;
The shadow in the sunny hour,
 The wail in the mirthful song.
This sight is all too sadly clear—
 For them a veil is riven;
Their piercing thought repose not here,  Their home is but in heaven!"
Literary Souvenir, 1829.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1829/The Battle Field

From The Museum of Literature and Science, Volume 14, 1829, page 95
From the same.
THE BATTLE FIELD.
I.
I looked on the field where the battle was spread,
When thousands stood forth in their glancing array
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed
Through the dun rolling clouds that o'ershadowed the fray.
II.
I saw the dark forest of lances appear, As the ears of the harvest unnumbered they stood;
I heard the stern shout as the foeman drew near,
Like the storm, that lays low the proud pines of the wood.
III.
Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were rolled,
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold
O'er the death-close of Hate, and the scowl of Despair,—
IV.
I looked on the field of contention again,
When the sabre was sheathed and the tempest had past;
The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain,
And the fern softly sighed in the low wailing blast.
V.
Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose,
And bright shone the stars through the sky’s deepened blue;
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose,
Where the foxglove lay gemmed with its pearl-drops of dew.
VI.
But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host,
As the ocean in might—as the storm-cloud in speed!
Where now were the thunders of victory's boast,—
The slayer's dread wrath and the strength of the steed!
VII.
Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride;—
One grass-covered mound told the traveller alone, Where thousands lay down in their anguish and died!
VIII.
Oh! glory!—behold thy famed guerdon's extent,
For this toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot;
A name like the mist, when night's beacons are spent—
A grave, with its tenants unwept and forgot! F. H.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1829/To a Departed Spirit

From The Cornish Magazine, 1828, page 267
TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
From the bright stars, or from the viewless air,
Or from some world, unreached by human thought
Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught,
Answer me, answer me
Have we not communed here, of life and death?
Have we not said that love, such love as ours,
Was not to perish, as a rose's breath,
To melt away, like song from festal bowers?
Answer, oh! answer me!
Thine eye's last light was mine—the soul that shone
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze;
Didst thou bear with thee, to the shores unknown,
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze!
Hear, hear, and answer me!
Thy voice—its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife,
Like a faint breeze:—oh! from that music flown
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life!
But once, oh! answer me!
In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep;
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush,
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep;
Spirit! then answer me!
By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet;
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair;
Speak!—if our souls in deathless yearnings meet,
Answer me, answer me!
The grave is silent—and the far-off sky,
And the deep midnight:—silent all, and lone!
Oh! if thy buried love make no reply.
What voice has earth!—Hear, pity, speak! mine own
Answer me, answer me!
Literary Souvenir, 1829.
# Poets of John Company

Poets of John Company
selected and arranged
by
THEODORE DOUGLAS DUNN
Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt
THACKER. SPINK & CO
CALCUTTA AND SIMLA
W. THACKER & CO., 2. Creed Lane, E.C
London
1921
Printed by
THACKER, SPINK AND CO., Calcutta.
TO
ALEXANDER ANDREW
RIPE SCHOLAR AND GENIAL HUMANIST
THE TRIBUTE
OF
THESE UNAVAILING PAGES
# Poetry of the Magyars/Preface

PREFACE.
I should think with less concern of the delay which has taken place since the announcement of this Volume, if I believed I had succeeded even to the extent of my own anticipations in producing a work of interest and value. Nothing can be more indulgent than the criticisms which, from time to time, have noticed the attempts I have made to bring the Poetry of other lands to the hearths and homes of England. I can truly say, had I myself been the critic they would have been judged with far greater severity. Another race of poets are now candidates in my hands for the good opinion of my countrymen; but on this ​occasion the claim to a candid, to a forbearing judgment, is stronger than I have ever before had to urge.
The Magyar language stands afar off and alone. The study of other tongues will be found of exceedingly little use towards its right understanding. It is moulded in a form essentially its own, and its construction and composition may be safely referred to an epoch when most of the living tongues of Europe either had no existence, or no influence on the Hungarian region.
Distance, too, has made the mission of books, and even the communication of ideas, tardy, uncertain, and expensive. Many valuable documents have been lost, or have lingered beyond the period when I could employ them usefully. One delay becomes ​the parent of many, and in the mean time the mind gets diverted, as mine has too frequently been, to other and more immediately attractive topics. My book goes forward, then,
"With all its imperfections on its head."
They would have been many more but for the watchful care of my friend Mayer, to whom I offer this public testimony of my thanks.
There are some, I know, who look upon the occupations of a Translator as ignoble and unworthy of literary ambition. I am well content to stand at respectful distance from those great intellects whose works are borne on the wings of an all-pervading fame to every country where the ear of civilization is listening. Yet I cannot believe that my ​humble labors are useless, nor have I ever wanted, and I hope I never shall want while health is vouchsafed to me, both encouragement and enthusiasm to pursue them. My mission, at all events, is one of benevolence. I have never left the ark of my country but with the wish to return to it, bearing fresh olive branches of peace and fresh garlands of poetry. I never yet visited the land where I found not much to love, to learn, to imitate, to honor. I never yet saw man utterly despoiled of his humanities. In Europe, at least, there are no moral nor intellectual wildernesses. Let others go forth with me to gather its fruits and flowers.
J. B.
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/Metrical Letter

METRICAL LETTER,
Written from London.
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Grandmother's Tale

ECLOGUE II.
THE GRANDMOTHER'S TALE.
* ↑ I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing any mischief should they afterwards become mad.
* ↑ There must be many persons living who remember these circumstances. They happened two or three and twenty years ago, in the neighbourhood of Bristol. The woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by which she preserved her husband from the press-gang, is also true.
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Old Mansion House

ECLOGUE I.
THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE.
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Cross Roads

The Cross Roads.
​The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them.
THE CROSS ROADS.
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# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Funeral

ECLOGUE III.
THE FUNERAL.
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade

The Sailor,
who had served in the Slave Trade.
​In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in the annexed Ballad, without the slightest addition or alteration. By presenting it as a Poem the story is made more public, and such stories ought to be made as public as possible.
THE SAILOR,
WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE-TRADE.
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# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Complaints of the Poor

The COMPLAINTS of the POOR.
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Sailor's Mother

ECLOGUE IV.
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Rose

The Rose.
​Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God.
The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile.
THE ROSE.
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# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Ruined Cottage

ECLOGUE VI.
THE RUINED COTTAGE.
THE END.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 47

Scans
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# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 47/August 1895/Obituary Notes

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Thomas Henry Huxley died at Eastbourne, England, on June 29th. A severe attack of influenza early in the spring had been followed by bronchitis and other disorders. He several times rallied, but was finally obliged to succumb. A sketch of his career, by Ernst Haeckel, and a portrait, were published in an early volume of this magazine. Prof. Huxley had recently completed the revision of his essays for an edition that has appeared in nine volumes. His last magazine article was on Mr. Balfour's Attack on Agnosticism. It appeared in the Nineteenth Century for March, and was to be followed by a second paper which his illness prevented him from completing.
Prof. William C. Williamson, well known as a biologist and paleontologist, died at Clapham, England, on June 23d, in his seventy-ninth year. When Owens College was founded in 1851 he was made its Professor of Biology and Geology, his researches having already won him an election as a F. R. S. Later this professorship was divided, and for many years he had held the chair of botany. He was the first to announce the existence in some of the deeper seas of what is now known as the foraminiferous ooze. He also made important researches upon the teeth and scales of fishes, and upon the fossil plants of the coal measures. He received the Royal Medal of the Royal Society, and the Wollaston gold medal of the Geological Society. The University of Edinburgh conferred upon him the degree of LL. D. He was elected by the Royal Society of Sweden to the foreign membership left vacant by the death of Asa Gray.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 43/September 1893/Obituary Notes

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The Rev. T. Wolle, pastor of the Moravian church, Bethlehem, Pa., whose death was recently announced, was an ardent student of fresh-water algæ, and author of three important publications on the Freshwater Algæ, the Desmids, and the Diatoms of the United States.
Cavaliere Giuseppe Antonio Pasquale, Professor of Botany at the University of Naples, and Director of the Botanic Garden, who has recently died, was the author of several books, chiefly those on the flora of Vesuvius and the flora of Capri.
The death is announced of Dr. Karl Semper, author of the book in the International Scientific Series on the Natural Conditions of Existence as they affect Animal Life. He was born at Altona, in 1832; studied at Würzburg, chiefly in zoölogy; made a scientific journey in 1859-'62 through the Philippine and Pelew Islands, the results of which were published in several valuable works; became Professor of Zoölogy at Würzburg in 1868, and a few years later Director of the Zoölogical Institute there.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/In Obitum Theophili Poetæ

Previously printed (under the extended title In Obitum Theophili Poetæ clarissimi) in Le Tombeau de Théophile Gautier, 1873, p. 169.
IN OBITUM THEOPHILI POETÆ.
O lux Pieridum et laurigeri deliciæ dei, Vox leni Zephyro lenior, ut veris amans novi Tollit floridulis implicitum primitiis caput, Ten' ergo abripuit non rediturum, ut redeunt novo Flores vere novi, te quoque mors irrevocabilem? Cur vatem neque te Musa parens, te neque Gratiæ, Nec servare sibi te potuit fidum animi Venus? Quæ nunc ipsa magis vel puero te Cinyreïo, Te desiderium et flebilibus lumen amoribus, Amissum queritur, sanguineis fusa comam genis. Tantis tu lacrymis digne, comes dulcis Apollini, Carum nomen eris dîs superis atque sodalibus Nobis, quîs eadem quæ tibi vivo patuit via Non æquis patet, at te sequimur passibus haud tuis,
At mæsto cinerem carmine non illacrymabilem Tristesque exuvias floribus ac fletibus integris Unà contegimus, nec citharâ nec sine tibiâ, Votoque unanimæ vocis Ave dicimus et Vale.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Fragment on Death

FRAGMENT ON DEATH.
And Paris be it or Helen dying, Who dies soever, dies with pain. He that lacks breath and wind for sighing, His gall bursts on his heart; and then He sweats, God knows what sweat!—again, No man may ease him of his grief; Child, brother, sister, none were fain To bail him thence for his relief.
Death makes him shudder, swoon, wax pale, Nose bend, veins stretch, and breath surrender, Neck swell, flesh soften, joints that fail Crack their strained nerves and arteries slender.
O woman's body found so tender, Smooth, sweet, so precious in men's eyes, Must thou too bear such count to render? Yes; or pass quick into the skies.
[In the original here follows Villon's masterpiece, the matchless Ballad of the Ladies of Old Time, so incomparably rendered in the marvellous version of Mr. Rossetti; followed in its turn by the succeeding poem, as inferior to its companion as is my attempt at translation of it to his triumph in that higher and harder field.—A. C. S.]
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/From Victor Hugo

Previously printed (under the tentative title The Children of the Poor. From the French of Victor Hugo) in Cassell's Magazine, May, 1870, p. 329.
FROM VICTOR HUGO.
Take heed of this small child of earth; He is great: he hath in him God most high. Children before their fleshly birth Are lights alive in the blue sky.
In our light bitter world of wrong They come; God gives us them awhile. His speech is in their stammering tongue, And his forgiveness in their smile.
Their sweet light rests upon our eyes. Alas! their right to joy is plain. If they are hungry, Paradise Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
The want that saps their sinless flower Speaks judgment on sin's ministers. Man holds an angel in his power. Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs,
When God seeks out these tender things Whom in the shadow where we sleep He sends us clothed about with wings, And finds them ragged babes that weep!
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Inferiae

INFERIAE.
Spring, and the light and sound of things on earth Requickening, all within our green sea's girth; A time of passage or a time of birth Fourscore years since as this year, first and last.
The sun is all about the world we see, The breath and strength of very spring; and we Live, love, and feed on our own hearts; but he Whose heart fed mine has passed into the past.
Past, all things born with sense and blood and breath; The flesh hears nought that now the spirit saith. If death be like as birth and birth as death, The first was fair—more fair should be the last.
Fourscore years since, and come but one month more The count were perfect of his mortal score Whose sail went seaward yesterday from shore To cross the last of many an unsailed sea.
Light, love and labour up to life's last height, These three were stars unsetting in his sight; Even as the sun is life and heat and light And sets not nor is dark when dark are we.
The life, the spirit, and the work were one That here—ah, who shall say, that here are done? Not I, that know not; father, not thy son, For all the darkness of the night and sea.
March 5, 1877
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/Nocturne

Previously printed (accompanied by a letter to Stéphane Mallarmé) in La République des Lettres, February 20th, 1876, pp. 79-80.
NOCTURNE.
La nuit écoute et se penche sur l'onde Pour y cueillir rien qu'un souffle d'amour; Pas de lueur, pas de musique au monde, Pas de sommeil pour moi ni de séjour. O mère, ô Nuit, de ta source profonde Verse‑nous, verse enfin l'oubli du jour.
Verse l'oubli de l'angoisse et du jour; Chante; ton chant assoupit l'âme et l'onde: Fais de ton sein pour mon âme un séjour, Elle est bien lasse, ô mère, de ce monde, Où le baiser ne veut pas dire amour, Où l'âme aimée est moins que toi profonde.
Car toute chose aimée est moins profonde, O Nuit, que toi, fille et mère du jour; Toi dont l'attente est le répit du monde, Toi dont le souffle est plein de mots d'amour, Toi dont l'haleine enfle et réprime l'onde, Toi dont l'ombre a tout le ciel pour séjour.
La misère humble et lasse, sans séjour, S'abrite et dort sous ton aile profonde; Tu fais à tous l'aumône de l'amour: Toutes les soifs viennent boire à ton onde, Tout ce qui pleure et se dérobe au jour, Toutes les faims et tous les maux du monde.
[Pg 156]Moi seul je veille et ne vois dans ce monde Que ma douleur qui n'ait point de séjour Où s'abriter sur ta rive profonde Et s'endormir sous tes yeux loin du jour; Je vais toujours cherchant au bord de l'onde Le sang du beau pied blessé de l'amour.
La mer est sombre où tu naquis, amour, Pleine des pleurs et des sanglots du monde; On ne voit plus le gouffre où naît le jour Luire et frémir sous ta lueur profonde; Mais dans les cœurs d'homme où tu fais séjour La douleur monte et baisse comme une onde.
envoi.
Du haut séjour plein de ta paix profonde Sur ce bas monde épands un peu de jour.
# Poems and Ballads (second series)/For the Feast of Giordano Bruno

FOR THE FEAST OF GIORDANO BRUNO,
PHILOSOPHER AND MARTYR.
i.
Beyond the lightning's or the morning's light,
Soul splendid with all-righteous love of right,
In whose keen fire all hopes and fears and woes
Were clean consumed, and from their ashes rose
Transfigured, and intolerable to sight
Save of purged eyes whose lids had cast off night,
In love's and wisdom's likeness when they close,
Embracing, and between them truth stands fast,
Embraced of either; thou whose feet were set On English earth while this was England yet,
Our friend that art, our Sidney's friend that wast,
Heart hardier found and higher than all men's past,
Shall we not praise thee though thine own forget?
ii.
O soul whose spirit on earth was as a rod
To scourge off priests, a sword to pierce their God,
A staff for man's free thought to walk alone, A lamp to lead him far from shrine and throne
On ways untrodden where his fathers trod Ere earth's heart withered at a high priest's nod
And all men's mouths that made not prayer made moan.
From bonds and torments and the ravening flame
Surely thy spirit of sense rose up to greet
Lucretius, where such only spirits meet,
And walk with him apart till Shelley came
To make the heaven of heavens more heavenly sweet
And mix with yours a third incorporate name.
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