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Poems

By Alfred Domett
Domett, Alfred (1811-1887)
  
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THE PEDESTRIAN.
  
A REVERIE.
  
WINTER.
  
ANACREONTIC.
  
THE STEAM-BOAT.
  
[As the April sun breaking]
  
SUNSET.
  
A STARRY NIGHT.
  
DEATH.
  
DESPAIR.
  
A FRAGMENT.
  
PLAIN TRUTHS.
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CHORUS IN THE ‘SEVEN AGAINST THEBES’ OF ÆSCHYLUS.
  
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Strophe 1.
  
Antistrophe 1.
  
Strophe 2.
  
Antistrophe 2.
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OPENING SCENES OF THE “CLOUDS” OF ARISTOPHANES.
 I. 
Scene first.
 II. 
SCENE II.
 III. 
SCENE III.
  
THE FIRST ODE OF HORACE,
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FRAGMENTS.
  
DEATH.
  
A WISH.
  
IN AN ALBUM.
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COMMONPLACES.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
  
FRAGMENT OF A CHORUS IN THE AJAX OF SOPHOCLES.
  
TEARS.
  
ODE TO THE MATHEMATICS.
  
[Oft when I read the lays]
  
STANZAS.
  
FRAGMENT.
  
TO A LADY.
  
TO ------.
  
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
  
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
  
LINES.
  
ON THE BIRTH OF A NEAR RELATION.
  
GREEK SONG.
  
[Whence is it mountains, forests, fields, and floods]
  
“GOOD BYE.”
  
['Twas in the twilight once—and Sorrow's shadow lay]
  
“LONG AGO,”
  
ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE IN AN ALBUM.
  
ANOTHER.
  
TO AGNES.
  
STANZAS.
  
FLOWERS.
  
A SIMILE.
  
THE BROKEN TRYST.
  
A SEA SIDE CALM.
  
THE CARD CASE'S PETITION.
  
THE “LAND O' THE LEAL.”
  
“GOOD-BYE!”
  
TO IONE.
  
TO AGNES.
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THE LONE STAR OF LOVE.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
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LOVE AND CIRCUMSTANCE.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
  
ADRIAN'S DYING ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL.
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WELLINGTON.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
  
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING.
  
SISERA.
  
THE VOICE OF THE PESTILENCE.
  
NIGHT.
  
HORACE TO LAMIAS.
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[subsection]
  
To “------,”
  
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF FRISK.
  
HORACE TO HIS PAGE.
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THE STARS.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
  
MIDNIGHT.
  
[This brave bright Earth with Mind o'erflows—]
  
A SUMMER THOUGHT.
  
TO BIANCA.
  
SONG.
  
THE NIGHTINGALE.
  
LOVE THE POET.
  
REMORSE.
  
SONG.
  
[My own—my absent one! thou who art still]
  
PAUL PREACHING AT ATHENS
  
L'Envoy.

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Terror strikes my trembling frame—
Woes impend too great to name!
The warrior-hosts upon the plain,
Are moving to their ranks again.
Successive crowds of cavalry
Pour onward like a raging sea
Whose waves with wildly-hollow roar
Chase each other to the shore.
I know it by the thick clouds curling,
Wide their slugglish folds unfurling!
I see them slowly from the tents,
Uprising to the battlements!
Dense and slow—they clearly tell,
And deadly still—they speak too well—
Too well they tell of foemen nearing,
Crimson War and Death appearing!
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