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# Pericles

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* Pericles, Prince of Tyre, a play by William Shakespeare
* "Pericles, Prince of Tyre," in Tales from Shakspeare, by Charles and Mary Lamb (1807)
* "Pericles", a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1826)
* Pericles, in Plutarch's Lives, translated by John Dryden, edited by Arthur Hugh Clough (1859)
* “Pericles”, by Charles Peter Mason in Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, 1870.
* "Pericles," by Maximilian Otto Bismarck Caspari in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
* "Pericles," in The Encyclopedia Americana, New York: The Encyclopedia Americana Corporation (1920)
* "Pericles, Prince of Tyre," by Tucker Brooke in The Encyclopedia Americana, New York: The Encyclopedia Americana Corporation (1920)

## See also

* Pericles (495–429 BCE), Athenian statesman
# Pericles, Prince of Tyre (1609)

THE LATE,
And much admired Play,
Called
Pericles, Prince
of Tyre.
With the true Relation of the whole Historie, aduentures, and fortunes of the said Prince:
As also,
The no lesse strange,and worthy accidents, in the Birth and Life, of his Daughter MARIANA.
As it hath been diuers and sundry times acted by his Maiesties Seruants, at the Globe on the Banck-side.
By William Shakespeare.
Imprinted at London for Henry Gosson, and are to be sold at the signe of the Sunne in Pater-noster row, &c.
1609.
* Act I.
* Act II.
* Act III.
* Act IV.
* Act V.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Eckley)/Memory's Rosary

Lake Como; July, 1861.
# Poems (Eckley)/My First Statue

(A THOUGHT.) "And their works do follow them."
# Poems (Eckley)/On the Way to Rome

1859.
# Poems (Duer)/An International Episode

POEMS.
# Poems (Eckley)/At Sea

"Asia;" 1855.
# Poems (Eckley)/Blanche

MISCELLANEOUS.
# Poems (Eckley)/An Earthquake, at Chiusi

AT CHIUSI. TO F. A. E.
# Poems (Eckley)/Christmas Night

Bath, 1862.
# Poems (Eckley)/Dead Violets on the "Lido"

Venice, May, 1859.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Star-Spangled Banner

The Star-Spangled Banner.
O! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming— Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?
On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? ​Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto—"In God is our trust": And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave
Francis Scott Key
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Wind and the Moon

The Wind and the Moon.
Little Laddie, do you remember learning "The Wind and the Moon"? You were eight or nine years old, and you shut your eyes and puffed out your cheeks when you came to the line "He blew and He blew." The saucy wind made a great racket and the calm moon never noticed it. That gave you a great deal of pleasure, didn't it? We did not care much for the noisy, conceited wind. (1824-.)
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out, You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about— I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."
​He turned in his bed; she was there again! On high In the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge! If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone— Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar— "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!
​He flew in a rage—he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew—till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, Good faith! I blew her to death— First blew her away right out of the sky— Then blew her in; what strength have I!"
But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high In the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.
George Macdonald.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Three Bells of Glasgow

The "Three Bells" of Glasgow.
"The Three Bells of Glasgow," by Whittier (1807-92), cannot be praised too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it after hearing it read correctly and by one who understands and appreciates it. "Stand by" is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once a year and learn it themselves, too.
Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly, The cruel leak gained fast.
Over the awful ocean Her signal guns pealed out. Dear God! was that Thy answer From the horror round about?
A voice came down the wild wind, "Ho! ship ahoy!" its cry: "Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow Shall stand till daylight by!"
Hour after hour crept slowly, Yet on the heaving swells Tossed up and down the ship-lights, The lights of the Three Bells!
And ship to ship made signals, Man answered back to man, While oft, to cheer and hearten, The Three Bells nearer ran:
And the captain from her taffrail Sent down his hopeful cry. "Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted. "The Three Bells shall stand by!"
​All night across the waters The tossing lights shone clear; All night from reeling taffrail The Three Bells sent her cheer.
And when the dreary watches Of storm and darkness passed, Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.
Sail on, Three Bells, forever, In grateful memory sail! Ring on, Three Bells of rescue, Above the wave and gale!
Type of the Love eternal, Repeat the Master's cry, As tossing through our darkness The lights of God draw nigh!
John G. Whittier.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Village Blacksmith

​["The 'village smithy' stood in Brattle Street, Cambridge. There came a time when the chestnut-tree that shaded it was cut down, and then the children of the place put their pence together and had a chair made for the poet from its wood."
The Village Blacksmith.
Longfellow (1807-82) is truly the children’s poet. His poems are as simple, pathetic, artistic, and philosophical as if they were intended to tell the plain everyday story of life to older people. "The Village Blacksmith" has been learned by thousands of children, and there is no criticism to be put upon it. The age of the child has nothing whatever to do with his learning it. Age does not grade children nor is poetry wholly to be so graded. "Time is the false reply."
Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands, And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.
​And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
Henry W. Longfellow.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Voice of Spring

The Voice of Spring.
"The Voice of Spring," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), becomes attractive as years go on. The line in this poem that captivated my youthful fancy was:
"The larch has hung all his tassels forth."
The delight with which trees hang out their new little tassels every year is one of the charms of "the pine family." John Burroughs sent us down a tiny hemlock, that grew in our window-box at school for five years, and every spring it was a new joy on account of the fine, tender tassels. Mrs. Hemans had a vivid imagination backed up by an abundant information.
I come, I come! ye have called me long; I come o'er the mountains, with light and song. Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.
​I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Felicia Hemans.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Well of St. Keyne

The Well of St. Keyne.
I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England—not the poem, but the real well. The poem is of the great body of world-lore. Southey (1774-1843).
A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west-country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne: Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow tree.
There came a man from the neighbouring town At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail.
"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life.
​"Or has your good woman, if one you have, In Cornwall ever been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."
"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."
"St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.
"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.
"But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!" The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said; But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.
​"I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch, But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."
Robert Southey.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Tournament

The Tournament.
There are several of Sidney Lanier's (1842-81) poems that children love to learn. "Tampa Robins," "The Tournament" (Joust I.), "Barnacles," "The Song of the Chattahoochee," and "The First Steamboat Up the Alabama" are among them. At our "poetry contests" the children have plainly demonstrated that this great poet has reached his hand down to the youngest. The time will doubtless come when it will be a part of education to be acquainted with Lanier, as it is now to be acquainted with Longfellow or Tennyson.
I.
Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, And the knights still hurried amain To the tournament under the ladies' eyes, Where the jousters were Heart and Brain.
II.
Flourished the trumpets, entered Heart, A youth in crimson and gold; Flourished again; Brain stood apart, Steel-armoured, dark and cold.
III.
Heart's palfrey caracoled gaily round, Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily; But Brain sat still, with never a sound, So cynical-calm was he.
IV.
Heart's helmet-crest bore favours three From his lady's white hand caught. While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he Or favour gave or sought.
V.
The trumpet blew; Heart shot a glance To catch his lady's eye, But Brain gazed straight ahead, his lance To aim more faithfully.
VI.
They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled; Brain rose again, ungloved; Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said, "My love to my beloved."
Sidney Lanier.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Violet

The Violet.
"The Violet," by Jane Taylor (1783-1824), is another of those dear old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child.
Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.
​And yet it was a lovely flower, No colours bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.
Jane Taylor.
# Pietro of Abano

Ludwig Tieck's novella Pietro of Abano (Pietro von Abano, oder Petrus Apone: Eine Zaubergeschichte) was written in 1824 and first published the following year.
* SECTION I
* SECTION II
* SECTION III
* SECTION IV
* SECTION V
* SECTION VI
* SECTION VII
* SECTION VIII
* SECTION IX
* SECTION X
* SECTION XI
* SECTION XII
* SECTION XIII
* SECTION XIV
* SECTION XV
* SECTION XVI
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poems (Victor)/To Mrs. —

TO MRS. ——
# Poems (Victor)/Verses for M—

A final stanza present in the 1877 version of this poem is omitted from this version.
VERSES FOR M——
The river on the east Ripples its azure flood within my sight, And, darting from the west, Are sunset arrows feathered with red light; The northern wind has hung His wintry harp upon some giant pine, And the pale stars among I see the stars I love to name as mine, But toward the south I turn my eager eyes— Beyond its flushed horizon my heart lies.
​The snow-clad isles of ice Launched by wild Boreas from a northern shore Journey the way my eyes Turn with an envious longing evermore, Smiling back to the sky Its own pink blush, and, floating out of sight, Bear south the softest dye Of northern heavens to fade in southern night— My eyes but look the way my joys are gone, And the ice islands travel not alone. The untrod fields of snow Glow with the rosy dye of parting day, And fancy asks if so The snow is stained with sunset far away, And if some face, like mine, Its forehead pressed against the window pane, Peers northward with the shine Of the pole star reflected in eyes' rain; "Ah yes," my heart says, "it is surely so," And like a bound bird flutters hard to go.
Port Huron, Mich., 1852.
# Poems (Victor)/Waiting

WAITING.
I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting, Though the steps watched for never come anear; The wearying want clings to it unabating— The fruitless wish for presences once dear.
No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision, No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow, No scene more truly could be called Elysian, Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.
And yet I pine;—this beautiful completeness Is incomplete, to my desiring heart; 'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness— The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.
There is no longer pleasure in emotion. I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill, Who "painted ships upon a painted ocean,"— Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.
Where are they fled?—they whose delightful voices, Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall: No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices, Change, death, and distance part me now from all.
​And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming, Pierces my soul with every sharp regret; The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming, Since all that's fair forbids me to forget.
Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent, 'Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine, Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent, In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine:
Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses, And gathered violets to deck my breast, Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses— I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.
Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning Of prairie fires, far off, through gathering gloom; While the young moon, and one bright star returning Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room.
Gone is the glimmer of the silent river, Hushed is the wind that op'ed the leaves today; Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way.
And yet I wait, how vainly, for a token— A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past; Alas, I listen for a word unspoken, And wait for arms that have embraced their last.
​I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling To grow immortal in my happy breast; Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing— The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.
As the conviction sinks into my spirit That my quick heart is doomed to death in life Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it, I am abandoned to despairing strife.
To the lost life, alas, no more returning, In this to come no semblance of the past— Only to wait—hoping this ceasless yearning May ere long end—and peace may come at last,
Omaha, Neb., 1857.
# Poems (Victor)/To My Valentine

TO MY VALENTINE.
Vexed with the day's long toil of thought, I fly to where it cometh not; I ope my door—a fine perfume Pervades the quiet of my room. A glance—I cry out with delight "The Saint! the Saint!" O blessed sprite, Thrice welcome when you come with flowers To sweeten my reposeful hours!
February 14, 1888.
# Poems (Victor)/To M—

TO M——
Do thy chamber windows open east, Beloved, as did ours of old? And do you stand when day has ceased, Withdrawn through evening's porch of gold And watch the fading flush above The hills on which the wan moon leans, Remembering the girlish love That blest this hour in other scenes?
# Poems (Victor)/To the Blue Nemophela

TO THE BLUE NEMOPHELA.
Dear dainty bloom, with disk of blue Right joyfully I welcome you! Unlike the scented garden sweets Round which each painted insect flits, You stir my thoughts to pleasant dreams Of summer shade and murmurous streams. I hail thee, flower of heavenly hue! All that is modest, chaste and true Peers from thy pretty, upturned face— Is breathed in thy unstudied grace. I gaze on thee, and fancies start To sudden blossom in my heart. Years all too quickly troop along, Named some for sorrow, some for song; Ever the summer's heat we dread; Winter brings storms upon our head; Yet spring returns, and in her smile Earth hath forgot her wreck and toil: Sweet child of spring, a joy alway, Right welcome, blue Nemophela!
Alameda, Cal., 1885.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/My Cricket

​POEMS. 167
                XLIV.
          MY CRICKET.
FARTHER in summer than the birds,
Pathetic from the grass,
A minor nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive mass.
No ordinance is seen,
So gradual the grace,
A pensive custom it becomes,
Enlarging loneliness.
Antiquest felt at noon
When August, burning low,
Calls forth this spectral canticle,
Repose to typify.
Remit as yet no grace,
No furrow on the glow,
Yet a druidic difference
Enhances nature now.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/My Rose

XI.
MY ROSE.
PIGMY seraphs gone astray, Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bees' exclusive coterie. Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald; Venice could not show a cheek Of a tint so lustrous meek. Never such an ambuscade As of brier and leaf displayed For my little damask maid. I had rather wear her grace Than an earl's distinguished face; I had rather dwell like her Than be Duke of Exeter Royalty enough for me To subdue the bumble-bee!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Nature rarer uses yellow

XXXI.
NATURE rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,— Prodigal of blue,
Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words.