Song
Go talk to her, sweet flower,
To whom I fain would talk
Tell her I hour by hour
Pine on my own poor stalk.
Tell her that I should live
Not quite so sore distressed,
If she to you would give
A throne upon her breast.
Tell her that should she hie
To my parched plot to see
If I be dead, that I
No more should withered be.
If I were dead, her feet
My spirit would revive,
As may her bosom sweet
Keep you, sweet flower, alive.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Sadder than lark when lowering
Sadder than lark when lowering
Clouds defend the sky;
Sadder than wild swan pouring
Death-notes ere it die;
Sadder than winds imploring
Shelter when storms are high,-
Couldst thou be less than adoring,
More sad were I.
Happy as streamlet flowing
'Twixt banks of heathery peat;
Happy as murmur going
Through the inclining wheat;
Happy as mother glowing
Over her little one's feet,-
I am happy in knowing,
Thou'rt mine, my sweet!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Primacy Of Mind
Above the glow of molten steel,
The roar of furnace, forge, and shed,
Protectress of the City's weal,
Now, Learning rears her loftier head;
That Progress may at length descry
It lacks the clue to guide aright,
And, conscious of its blindness, cry
Unto the Muse, ``More light! More light!''
That Wealth may fitly yield the throne
To Letters, Science, artist-skill,
And Matter, willing subject, own
Mind must be lord and master still.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Love's Trinity
SOUL, heart, and body, we thus singly name,
Are not in love divisible and distinct, But each with each inseparably link'd. One is not honour, and the other shame,
But burn as closely fused as fuel, heat, and flame.
They do not love who give the body and keep
The heart ungiven; nor they who yield the soul, And guard the body. Love doth give the whole; Its range being high as heaven, as ocean deep,
Wide as the realms of air or planet's curving sweep.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The White Pall Of Peace
Over the peaceful veldt,
Silently, snowflakes fall!
Silently, slow, unfelt,
Cover the Past with a pall!
Brave brother Boers, let us hie
To your and our brothers dead;
Over the spot where they lie
Tears, yours and ours, be shed!
Underneath turf, cross, and stone
Combat and discord be husht!
Blest be the heroes unknown,
Blest be their deeds and dust.
Now that the war-clamours cease,
And silently snowflakes fall,
Give we the kiss of Peace,
And one Flag be the Flag of us all!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Give me a roof where Wisdom dwells
Give me a roof where Wisdom dwells,
Where honeysuckle smiles and smells,
A bleating flock, some lowing kine,
An honest welcome always mine,
A homely draught, a humble meal,
Leisure to live, to think, to feel,
A narrow plot, a prospect wide,
A patch upon the mountain side!
From these my heart you will not wean
For Fashion's tinsel, Splendour's sheen,
The Sceptre's favour, Senate's prize,
No, nor the Empire of your eyes.
Farewell! The Valley be your own!
And I will scale the heights,-alone.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Sweet Love Is Dead
Sweet Love is dead:
Where shall we bury him?
In a green bed,
With no stone at his head,
And no tears nor prayers to worry him.
Do you think he will sleep,
Dreamless and quiet?
Yes, if we keep
Silence, nor weep
O'er the grave where the ground-worms riot.
By his tomb let us part.
But hush! he is waking!
He hath winged a dart,
And the mock-cold heart
With the woe of want is aching.
Feign we no more
Sweet Love lies breathless.
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Austin
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Shepherd swains that feed your flocks
`Shepherd swains that feed your flocks
'Mong the grassy-rooted rocks,
While I still see sun and moon,
Grant to me this simple boon:
As I sit on craggy seat,
And your kids and young lambs bleat,
Let who on the pierced pipe blows
Play the sweetest air he knows.
And, when I no more shall hear
Grasshopper or chanticleer,
Strew green bay and yellow broom
On the silence of my tomb;
And, still giving as you gave,
Milk a she-goat at my grave.
For, though life and joy be fled,
Dear are love-gifts to the dead.'
poem by Alfred Austin
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A Fragment
Should fickle hands in far-off days
No longer stroke thy hair,
And lips that once were proud to praise
Forget to call thee fair,
Sigh but my name, and though I be
Mute in the churchyard mould,
I will arise and come to thee,
And worship as of old.
And should I meet the wrinkled brow,
Or find the silver tress,
What were't to me, it would be thou,
I could not love thee less.
'Gainst love time wages bootless strife,
What now is would be then;
The cry that brought me back to life
Would make thee young again.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Any Poet At Any Time
Time, thou supreme inexorable Judge,
Whom none can bribe, and none can overawe,
Who unto party rancour, private grudge,
Calmly opposeth equitable law,
Before whom advocacy vainly strives
To make the better cause to seem the worse,
To thy Tribunal, when our jangling lives
Are husht, I leave the verdict on my verse.
Irrevocably then wilt thou proclaim
What should have been, what now must ever be,
If in oblivion perish should my name,
Or shine aloft in mighty company.
I to my kind proffering of my poor best,
Remit to Time's arbitrament the rest.
poem by Alfred Austin
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