19th Century Poems

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 220th birthday.

James Clarence Mangan
Irish
1803 – 1849

 

Long they pine in weary woe — the nobles of our land —
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exie’s brand,
But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Think not her a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen;
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen;
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a qeeen,
Were the king’s son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Sweet and mild would look her face — Oh! none so sweet and mild —
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled;
Woolen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,
If the king’s son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and hapless bones!
Bitter anguish wrings our souls — with heavy sighs and groans
We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Let us pray to Him who holds life’s issues in His hands,
Him who formed the mighty globe, with all his thousand lands;
Girding them with sea and mountains, rivers deep, and strands,
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

He, who over sands and waves led Israel along —
He who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng;
He who stood by Moses when his foes were fierce and strong,
May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Written in Claverton Church Yard, Somersetshire

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 250th birthday.

J.S. Anna Liddiard
Irish 1773 – 1819

 

Death’s sleep soon flies;—They’ll wake again,
To scorn past life, so full of pain!
‘Tis we that sleep—‘tis we that dream—
Altho’ so much awake we seem;
Awake! —alas! —one dream is Life,
A Phantasma—a scene of strife—
By folly led, by passions torn,
Until we reach Life’s destined bourn!

Tender Mercies

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 200th birthday.

Anna Laetitia Waring
Welsh
1823 – 1910

 

Tender mercies, on my way
Falling softly like the dew,
Sent me freshly every day,
I will bless the Lord for you.

Though I have not all I would,
Though to greater bliss I go,
Every present gift of good
To Eternal Love I owe.

Source of all that comforts me,
Well of joy for which I long,
Let the song I sing to Thee
Be an everlasting song.

Litanies of the Rose

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 165th birthday.

Remy de Gourmont
French
1858 – 1915

 

Rose with dark eyes,
mirror of your nothingness,
rose with dark eyes,
make us believe in the mystery,
hypocrite flower,
flower of silence.

Rose the colour of pure gold,
oh safe deposit of the ideal,
rose the colour of pure gold,
give us the key of your womb,
hypocrite flower,
flower of silence.

Rose the colour of silver,
censer of our dreams,
rose the colour of silver,
take our heart and turn it into smoke,
hypocrite flower,
flower of silence.

Finally, the Exorcism

We present this work in honor of the 105th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Nigâr Hanım
Turkish
1856 – 1918

 

Finally, the exorcism, finally
I did not stay within my heart

What is my heart to mark a feeling
Every limb is supposed to be caressed with fur

I love that Nigâr stretches out to heaven with these poems:
As for you, actually, you are always attracted to yourself

Love… that bloodthirsty thing… that close-clinging accident
Do not kill your leash

The ferry will not help the werewolf
Unburdening myself will not resign me

I love what I have and who I am.
I had a chance to love.
Empty heart, empty heart, an empty life…

I am delighted with this life of dreams and elimination
Lonely, cheerful, passionate and playful
I passed and then became a prisoner

Well, if I die… I am happy

Translation by Linda Marshall

I Am Tired

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 225th birthday.

Luise Hensel
German
1798 – 1876

 

I am tired, go to bed,
Close both little eyes;
Father, let your eyes
Be over my bed!
If I have done wrong today,
Don’t look at it, beloved God!
Your mercy and Jesus’ blood
Turn all damage into good.
All those who are close to me,
God, let them rest in your hand!
Let all people, small and large,
Be under your protection.
Send rest to sick hearts,
Let teary eyes be closed;
Let the moon stand in the sky
And look upon the quiet world!

Acrobat of Pain

We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.

João da Cruz e Sousa
Brazilian
1861 – 1898

 

Chortle, laugh, in a laughter of storm
like a clown who, lanky and nervous,
laughs, in an absurd laughter, inflated
with violent irony and pain.

With that atrocious and bloody guffaw—:
rattle the jester’s bells, convulsing.
Jump, puppet: jump, clown, pierced
by the stertor of this slow agony—

You’re asked for an encore, and that’s not to be sneered at.
Come on! Tighten the muscles up, tighten up
in these macabre steel pirouettes…

And though you fall on the ground, quivering,
drowned in your hot and seething blood,
laugh! Heart, saddest of clowns.

Translation by Flavia Vidal

from A Versified Autobiography

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.

Translation by William Michael Rossetti