The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
48
TO A SILENT SINGER
SONNET
England with passionate yearning longs to hear
From the grand living voice a living word
Sweet as the chant that once Italia heard,
Proud as the young Republic's trumpet clear,
Stern as the curse that on Napoleon's ear
Smote with huge portent of tremendous doom
When prostrate Empire shuddered at its tomb
And dawned on Paris the terrific year.
From the grand living voice a living word
Sweet as the chant that once Italia heard,
Proud as the young Republic's trumpet clear,
Stern as the curse that on Napoleon's ear
Smote with huge portent of tremendous doom
When prostrate Empire shuddered at its tomb
And dawned on Paris the terrific year.
Still with us dwells a spirit as great and strong
As when the sunrise mingled with his song
And night's dim hosts were scattered at his glance;
As in the old storm-swept days when Swinburne knew,
While hellward the Imperial eagles flew,
The heart of Italy, the soul of France.
As when the sunrise mingled with his song
And night's dim hosts were scattered at his glance;
As in the old storm-swept days when Swinburne knew,
While hellward the Imperial eagles flew,
The heart of Italy, the soul of France.
1904.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |