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The Golden Treasury

Additional Poems


I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;

Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

W. S. Landor


Ah what avails the sceptred race!

Ah what the form divine !
What every virtue, every grace !

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

W. S. Landor


There is delight in singing, tho' none hear
Beside the singer: and there is delight
In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone
And see the praised 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 and hale,
No man hath walked along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing sing for song,

W, S. Landor


Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak

Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek

Over my open volume you will say, “This man loved me!' then rise and trip away.

W. S. Landor


RONDEAU Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kiss'd me. J. H. Leigh Hunt

Seamen three! What men be ye?

Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?

To rake the moon from out the sea.

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.
And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?

I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.

No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be.
In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll ?

No: in charméd bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl?

Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine. And your ballast is old wine.

T. L. Peacock



A good sword and a trusty hand !

A merry heart and true!
King James's men shall understand

What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when?

And shall Trelawny die?
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why!

Out spake their captain brave and bold,

A merry wight was he: 'If London ver were Michael's hold,

We'll set Trelawny free!

'We'll cross the Tamar, land to land,

The Severn is no stay,
With “one and all," and hand in hand,

And who shall bid us nay?

‘And when we come to London Wall,

A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! Come forth, ye cowards all,

Here's men as good as you.

*Trelawny he's in keep and hold,

Trelawny he may die;-
But here 's twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!'

R. S. Hawker



With deep affection,
And recollection,
I often think of

Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would,
In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells.
On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.
I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate-
But all their music

Spoke naught like thine;
For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling

Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.
I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame :
But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly;-
O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow,
While on tower and kiosk O
In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets;
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer
From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem
More dear to me, -

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