We present this work in honor of the poet’s 240th birthday.
Gabriele Rossetti Italian 1783 – 1854
Thrilled by the first Phœbean impulses, Rough versicles I traced with facile hand: And yet, to my surprise, those lines of mine Almost took wing into a distant flight. A hope of Pindus did I hear me named: But praise increased my ardour, not my pride. And yet some vanity there came and mixed With the fair issue of my preluding: But, all the more I heard the applause increase, With equal force did study grow in me. Not surely that I tried to load my page With pomp abstruse extraneous to my drift; But counterwise each image and each rhyme, The more spontaneous, so meseemed more fair. In trump of gold and in the oaten pipe Let some seek the sublime, I seek for ease. I shunned those verses which sprawl forth untuned Even from my days of schoolboy tutelage: I know they please some people, but not me: Admiring Dante, Metastasio I laud; and hold—a true Italian ear Must not admit one inharmonious verse. Some lines require a very surgeon’s hand To make them upon crutches stand afoot. So be they! But, to set them musical, They must, by Heaven, be in themselves a song. This seems a truthful, not a jibing, rule— Music and lyric are a twinborn thing. Yet think not that I deem me satisfied With upblown empty sound without ideas:— Then will a harmony be beautiful When great emotions and great thoughts it stirs.
We present this work in honor of Defense of the Fatherland Day.
Denis Davydov Russian 1784 – 1839
Where are you, old friends of mine, True hussars by avocation, Comrades both in arms and wine, Champions of conversation?
Grayheads, I remember you, Dippers full, in blissful poses. Drinking while the fire burned through, Glowing like your own red noses!
Sprawled on hayricks for settees, Jaunty shakoes backward tilted, Hussar jackets to your knees, Sabres resting, carven-hilted.
Black-stained pipes between your teeth, Puffing, there you lay in clover, While the smoke, wreath after wreath, Floated lock and whisker over.
Tire re you drowsed and hugged your swords; Not a sound, while smoke curled densely, Not a murmur – drunk as lords, Drunk till you were almost senseless.
But as soon as dawn arrived Off to battle you rode daily With your shakoes to one side, In tire wind your jackets flailing.
Under riders horses fly, Sabres whistle, foemen slaying… Battle over, nightfall nigh — Dippers once again start playing.
Mat do I see now, though? God! War has given way to dancing; Like officials clad and shod. Through a waltz hussars go prancing.
They’ve grown wise, you’ll say to me… Listen to those home-bred Frenchmen: Jomini1 — just Jomini. But of vodka — ne’er a mention!
Where are you, old friends of mine, True hussars by avocation, Comrades both in arms and wine, Champions of conversation?
We present this work in honor of the 200th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Charles Wolfe Irish 1791 – 1823
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,– But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But left him alone with his glory.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 175th birthday.
Louisa Lawson Australian 1848 – 1920
The waratah has stained her cheek, Her lips are even brighter, Like virgin quartz without a streak Her teeth are, but far whiter. Her eyes are large arid soft and dark, And clear as running water; And straight as any stringy bark Is Lil, the digger’s daughter.
She’ll wash a prospect quick and well, And deftly rise the ladle; The weight of gold at sight she’ll tell, And work with tub and cradle. She was her father’s only mate, And wound up wash and water, She worked all day and studied late, For all she knows he taught her.
She stood to wait the word below. A test for woman, rather; When I sprang to the windlass bow, And helped her land her father, She turned her pretty face on me To thank me, and I thought her The grandest girl of all her race Sweet Lil, the digger’s daughter.
And when my luck began to change I grew a trifle bolder, And told my love, but it was strange She knew before I told her. She said that she would be my wife, Then home I proudly brought her, To be my loving mate for life, But still the digger’s daughter.
We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ignacio Manuel Altamirano Mexican 1834 – 1893
Come, embrace me, never remove your arms from round my neck, never hide your lovely face from me, don’t run away shyly. Let our lips meet In an endless, burning kiss. Let the hours, slow and sweet, Flow by just like this. Doves fall silent in green tamarind trees; spikenards have exhausted their supply of scents. You’re growing languid; your eyes close with fatigue, and your bosom, sweet friend, is trembling. On the river bank Everything droops and swoons; The rosebays on the beach Grow drowsy with the heat. I’ll offer you repose on this carpet of clover, in the perfumed shade of orange trees in bloom.
Poets Corner 