We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
Henry Louis Vivian Derozio Indian 1809 – 1831
How felt he when he first was told A slave he ceased to be; How proudly beat his heart, when first He knew that he was free !—- The noblest feelings of the soul To glow at once began; He knelt no more; his thoughts were raised; He felt himself a man. He looked above—-the breath of heaven Around him freshly blew; He smiled exultingly to see The wild birds as they flew, He looked upon the running stream That ‘neath him rolled away; Then thought on winds, and birds, and floods, And cried, ‘I’m free as they!’ Oh Freedom! there is something dear E’en in thy very name, That lights the altar of the soul With everlasting flame. Success attend the patriot sword, That is unsheathed for thee! And glory to the breast that bleeds, Bleeds nobly to be free! Blest be the generous hand that breaks The chain a tyrant gave, And, feeling for degraded man, Gives freedom to the slave.
I come today to high Pichincha’s brow, forced by the cannon of the whites to flee— a wanderer like the sun, fiery like him, like the sun, free!
Hear, Father Sun! The throne lies shattered now low in the dust; profaned thine altars be. Alone to-day I magnify thy name— alone, but free!
Hear, Father Sun! The brand of slavery I will not wear, for all the world to see. Hither I come today to slay myself, and to die free!
Today when thou are setting in the west thous canst behold me from the distant sea chanting thy hymns on the volcano’s crest, singing, and free!
To-morrow, when thy radiant crown once more far in the east shall shine forth gloriously, thine earliest ray will only gild my grave— grave of the free!
On it the condor from the sky will stoop, that makes its home where lofty summits be; there will it lay its eggs and build its nest, unknown and free!
Mother of Pains, Lady of Suffering, I contemplate your lacerate heart. For the suffering endured by your beloved son, In a life filled with harshness and ingratitude. There is in your eyes such tenderness, So much affection and divine love, That from your tortured semblance A lovely and pure light irradiates; A light that illuminates the most shadowy pathway A divine light, sublime and splendorous That enlightens, guides, and supports. Dear Lady, so beautiful are your tears That they resemble gleaming stars, Drops of light in the darkness of anguish.
Come here, my mother sweetly told me one day; (I still seem to hear the heavenly melody in the air of her voice).
Come, and tell me what such strange causes draw that tear from you, my son, which hangs from your trembling eyelashes, like a curdled drop of dew.
You have a pity and you hide it from me. Don’t you know that the simplest mother knows how to read her children’s souls like you do the book?
Do you want me to guess what you feel? Come here, urchin, with a couple of kisses on the forehead I will dissipate the clouds from your sky.
I burst out crying. Nothing, I told him; I do not know the cause of my tears, but from time to time my heart is oppressed, and I cry.
She bowed her forehead, thoughtful, her pupil became troubled, and, wiping her eyes and mine, she told me more calmly:
– Always call your mother when you suffer, she will come, dead or alive; If it is in the world, to share your sorrows, and if not, to console you from above…
And I do it this way when harsh luck, like today, disturbs the calm of my home: I invoke the name of my beloved mother, and, then, I feel that my soul expands!
We present this work in honor of April Fool’s Day.
W.T. Goodge Australian 1862 – 1909
“You talk of snakes,” said Jack the Rat, “But blow me, one hot summer, I seen a thing that knocked me flat – Fourteen foot long or more than that, It was a reg’lar hummer! Lay right along a sort of bog, Just like a log!
“The ugly thing was lyin’ there And not a sign o’ movin’, Give any man a nasty scare; Seen nothin’ like it anywhere Since I first started drovin’. And yet it didn’t scare my dog. Looked like a log!
“I had to cross that bog, yer see, And bluey I was humpin’; But wonderin’ what that thing could be A-lyin’ there in front o’ me I didn’t feel like jumpin’. Yet, though I shivered like a frog, It seemed a log!
“I takes a leap and lands right on The back of that there whopper!” He stopped. We waited. Then Big Mac Remarked: “Well, then, what happened, Jack?” “Not much,” said Jack, and drained his grog. “It was a log!”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
Placido Cuban 1809 – 1844
Oh Liberty! I wait for thee To break this chain and dungeon bar; I hear thy spirit calling me Deep in the frozen North, afar, With voice like God’s, and visage like a star.
Long cradled by the mountain wind, Thy mates the eagle and the storm, Arise! and from thy brow unbind The wreath that gives its starry form, And smite the strength that would thy grace deform!
Yes, Liberty! thy dawning light, Obscured by dungeon bars, shall cast Its splendor on the breaking night, And tyrants, flying pale and fast, Shall tremble at thy gaze and stand aghast!
We present this work in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.
Ellen Mary Patrick Downing Irish 1828 – 1869
My own dear native river, how fondly dost thou flow, By many a fair and sunny scene where I can never go, Thy waves are free to wander, and quickly on they wind, Till thou hast left the crowded streets and city far behind; Beyond I may not follow; thy haunts are not for me; Yet I love to think on the pleasant track of my own sweet river Lee
The spring-tide now is breathing—when they waters glance along, Full many a bird salutes thee with bright and cheering song; Full many a sunbeam falleth upon thy bosom fair, And every nook thou sleekest hath welcome smiling there. Glide on, thou blessed river! nor pause to think of me, Who only in my longing heart can tread that track with thee!
Yet when thy waters wander, where, haughty in decay, Some grand old Irish castle looks frowning on thy way; Oh! speak aloud, bold river! how I have wept with pride To read of those past ages, ere all our glory died, And wish for one short moment I had been there to see Such relic of the by-gone day upon thy banks, fair Lee!
And if, in roving onward, thy gladsome waters bound Where cottage homes are smiling, and children’s voices sound; Oh! think how sweet and tranquil, beneath the loving sky, Rejoicing in some country home, my life had glided by, And grieve one little minute that I can never be A happy, happy cottager upon thy banks, fair Lee!
Now, fare thee well, glad river! peace smile upon thy way, And still may sunbeams brighten, where thy wild rimples play! Oft in that weary city these blue waves leave behind I’ll think upon the pleasant paths where thy smooth waters wind; Oh! but for one long summer day, to wander on with thee, And rove where’er thou rovest, my own sweet river Lee!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 180th birthday.
Arthur O’Shaughnessy Irish 1844 – 1881
We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world’s great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire’s glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song’s measure Can trample a kingdom down.
We, in the ages lying, In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth; And o’erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world’s worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.
A breath of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming — The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done.
They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising; They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going: But on one man’s soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart; And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Wrought flame in another man’s heart.
And therefore to-day is thrilling With a past day’s late fulfilling; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted, And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass, as they may, In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, The dream that was scorned yesterday.
But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye.
For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God’s future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die.
Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore; Bring us hither your sun and your summers; And renew our world as of yore; You shall teach us your song’s new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, And a singer who sings no more.
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