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Poems and Songs by E. H. B. [i.e. E. H. Bickersteth]

Bickersteth, Edward Henry (1825-1906)

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LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING MY DAUGHTER SING MRS. NORTON'S “THERE IS NO TRACE OF THEE AROUND.”

A LAMENT FOR PERSIA.

OH! BRING MY LUTE.

STANZAS TO ---.

TO THE MEMORY OF MALIBRAN.

TO THE GILLY-FLOWER.

TO THE SNOWDROP.

BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL SEA.

WRITTEN ON SEEING THE QUEEN PASS THROUGH THE ROYAL GALLERY TO THE HOUSE OF LORDS,

DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.

LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE PAINTED ON AN INDIAN TABLE.

TO MY DAUGHTER'S BIRD.

GUIDO'S MAGDALENE.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

ELEGY TO L. E. L.

THE SILENT LUTE.

TO THE NEW YEAR.

LINES SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY MY DAUGHTER ON LEAVING HER SCHOOL GARDEN AT---

THAT MOCKING LIP.

“HEARTS-EASE.”

LINES ADDRESSED TO --- ON ATTAINING TWENTY-ONE YEARS OF AGE.

TO THE BIRD OF PARADISE.

OH! CEASE THOSE BELLS.

THE SONG OF FINGAL.

THE POET'S WREATH.

FAREWELL TO THE YEAR.

ON BEING ASKED BY MY CHILDREN TO JOIN IN THEIR PASTIMES

THE FLOWER GIRL'S SONG.

OH! WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

THE FLOWERS ARE ALL FADING.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF QUEEN VICTORIA'S VISIT TO THE CITY OF LONDON,

ON THE DEATH OF A NEPHEW.

A MOTHER TO HER SLEEPING CHILD.

STANZAS TO SPRING.

IMPROMPTU ON A BLADE OF GRASS.

WHY WAKE THE LONG FORGOTTEN LAY?

TO DEATH.

CONRAD TO MEDORA.

MEDORA TO CONRAD.

WHAT IS THE SUNSHINE OF THE HEART?

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND,

WRITTEN ON VISITING BLACK GANG CHINE,

INVOCATION TO MY MUSE.

VENUS AND CUPID.

THE BRANCH OF THE ALMOND TREE.

A MOTHER TO HER SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

TO A FAVORITE POET.

TO A YOUTH ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

CLEOPATRA TO MARC ANTHONY.

TO THE MEMORY OF ------.

ASPASIA TO PERICLES.

A SICK PARENT'S BEDSIDE.

FAREWELL TO THE YEAR WHICH IS PAST.

FAREWELL TO GUERNSEY.

“OH! HEED NOT THOSE BEAMS.”

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON A DEPARTED PARENT.

MY SUMMER-HOUSE.

YES, WE WILL MEET.

HE COMES NOT YET.

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132

TO DEATH.

Stay—stay, insatiate Death!
Strike not the babe upon its mother's knee,
'Tis all too bright and beautiful for thee:
Wait longer for thy prey.

Leave the fair cheek to bloom,
The glancing eye to shed its holy beam,
Stay not the glad step on the village green:
Wait yet awhile, O Death!

Arrest not manhood's dream!
Fling not the cypress o'er the lover's bower!
Chill not the soft blush of the roseate flower
Which blooms before thee, Death!

Touch not the poet's heart—
Worship the burning shrine thou findest there;
Gaze on his wreath-bound brow; spare—spare—oh spare
The lute—the coronal!

133

Too soon—too soon, O Death!
Thy shaft will strike th' impassioned votary down,
The shrine extinguish—and the wreathēd crown
Wither within thy grasp.

Hie to the battle-field,
Call the proud soldier mid his glories won,—
The flags are waving, and the setting sun
Shall gleam above his grave!

Go to pale Misery's door,
List to the breathings of despair and pain;
Stay the rash hand, nor let one fatal stain
Witness against thee, Death!

List to the lone heart's prayer;
Breathe gently o'er that one whose faith is dead,
Whose hopes are withered and whose dream is fled;
Take—take the lonely—Death!

Yet stay awhile, O Death!
Strike not the babe upon its mother's knee,
'Tis all too bright and beautiful for thee,
Wait longer for thy prey!