Textarchiv - Eliza Cook

Song of the Worm

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

The worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain
In the field that is stored with its millions of slain;
The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong,
With the vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and strong.
The tower of ages in fragments is laid,
Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade;
And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave
Must turn weak and submit to the worm and the grave.

Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet
Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod-treading feet
Oh! turn not away with the shriek of disgust
From the thing you must mate with in darkness and dust.
Your eyes may be flashing in pleasure and pride,
'Neath the crown of a Queen or the wreath of a bride;
Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair
Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there.

Cities of splendour, where palace and gate,
Where the marble of strength and the purple of state;
Where the mart and arena, the olive and vine,
Once flourished in glory; oh! are ye not mine?
Go look for famed Carthage, and I shall be found
In the desolate ruin and weed-covered mound;
And the slime of my trailing discovers my home,
'Mid the pillars of Tyre and the temples of Rome.

I am sacredly sheltered and daintily fed
Where the velvet bedecks, and the white lawn is spread;
I may feast undisturbed, I may dwell and carouse
On the sweetest of lips and the smoothest of brows.
The voice of the sexton, the chink of the spade,
Sound merrily under the willow's dank shade.
They are carnival notes, and I travel with glee
To learn what the churchyard has given to me.

Oh! the worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain,
For where monarchs are voiceless I revel and reign;
I delve at my ease and regale where I may;
None dispute with the worm in his will or his way.
The high and the bright for my feasting must fall
Youth, Beauty, and Manhood, I prey on ye all:
The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slave;
All, all must bow down to the worm and the grave.

Eliza Cook

Be Kind When You Can

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

Be kind when you can, though the kindness be little,
'Tis small letters make up philosophers' scrolls;
The crystal of Happiness, vivid and brittle,
Can seldom be cut into very large bowls.

'Tis atoms that dwell in the measureless mountain,
'Tis moments that sum up the century's flight;
'Tis but drops that unite in Niagara's fountain,
'Tis rays, single rays, from the harvest-sun light.

Stone by stone builds the temple that rises in glory,
Inch by inch grows the child till maturity's prime;
The jewels so famous in bright, Eastern story
Have been nursed, tint by tint, in the blossom of Time.

'Tis grains make the desert-sheet, trackless and spreading;
'Tis but petals that deck every blossom-twinned spray;
There are leaves - only leaves - where the forest is shedding
Its gloom till the density shuts out the day.

A word or a glance which we give "without thinking",
May shadow or lighten some sensitive breast;
And the draught from the well-spring is wine in the drinking,
If quaffed from the brim that Affection has blest.

Then be kind when you can in the smallest of duties,
Don't wait for the larger expressions of Love;
For the heart depends less for its joys and its beauties
On the flight of the Eagle than coo of the Dove.

Eliza Cook

The Flag of the Free

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

'Tis the streamer of England - it floats o'er the brave-
'Tis the fairest unfurled o'er the land or the wave;
But though brightest in story and matchless in fight,
'Tis the heralds of Mercy as well as of Might.
In the cause of the wronged may it ever be first-
When tyrants are humbled and fetters are burst:
Be "Justice" the war-shout, and dastard is he
Who would scruple to die 'neath the Flag of the Free!

It may trail o'er the halyards-a bullet-torn rag,
Or flutter in shreds from the battlement-crag;
Let the shot whistle through it as fast as it may,
Till it sweep the last glorious tatter away.
What matter! we'd hoist the blue jacket on high
Or the soldier's red sash from the spearhead should fly:
Though it were but a riband, the foeman should see
The proud signal and own it-the Flag of the Free!

Have we ever looked out from a far foreign shore,
To mark the gay pennon each passing ship bore;
And watch'd every speck that arose from the foam,
In hope of glad tidings from country and home?-
Has our straining eye caught the loved colours at last.
And seen the dear bark bounding on to us fast?
Then, then have our hearts learnt how precious can be
The fair streamer of England-the Flag of the Free!

Eliza Cook

The Banner of Union

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

Bring the Harp of the West, and the Pipes of the North,
When our Trumpet note calls to the field;
Let the men of old Scotia and Erin come forth,
And our foemen shall see who must yield.

Side by side in the battle, like granite we'll stand,
With a will and a might none shall sever;
For Glory or Death, we will twine in one wreath
Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle for ever.

Our Banner of Union shall float in the wind
Over hearts that have never yet quailed;
The sword shall be drawn and the banner be borne,
By hands that have never yet failed.
Sons of heather! your fame in the fight
Is as old as your glens and your valleys,
Men of Hibernia! let Right ask for Might;
And where is the spirit but rallies.

Side by side in the battle, like granite we'll stand,
With a will and a might none shall sever;
For Glory or Death, we will twine in one wreath
Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle for ever.

Eliza Cook

Black Bess

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

Turpin had his Black Bess, and she carried him well,
As fame with her loud-breathing trumpet will tell;
She knew not the lash, and she suffered no spur;
A bold rider was all that was needed by her.
That rider grew pallid and cautious with fear,
There was danger around him and death in the rear;
But he mocked at the legion of foes on his track,
When he found himself firm on his bonnie steed's back.

She carried him on as no steed did before,
She travelled as courser will never do more;
Bounding on like the wild deer, she scarce left a trace,
On the road or the turf, of her antelope pace.
The pistol was levelled, what was it to Dick?
The shot might be rapid, but Bess was as quick:
"Ha! Ha!" shouted Turpin, "a horse and a man
Are fair marks for your bullets to reach, if they can."

The mountain was high, and the valley was deep;
She sprang up the hill and she flew down the steep;
She came to the waste, rough with furrow and weed,
But the brushwood and gap were no checks to her speed.
She dashed through the stream and she climbed the broad bank,
With no word to urge forward, no heel to her flank;
The gate with its padlock might stand in her way;
It took more than five bars to keep Black Bess at bay.

She kept her career up for many a league,
With no slackening of pace and no sign of fatigue;
Right onward she went till she staggered and dropped;
But her limbs only failed when her heart-pulse had stopped.
Her dare-devil rider lived on for a while,
And told of her work with a triumphing smile:
And the fame of Dick Turpin had been something less
If he'd ne'er rode to York on his bonnie Black Bess.

Here's a health to her memory! shirk it who dare-
If you love what is noble, pledge Turpin's brave mare;
And the draught will be welcome, the wine will be good;
If it have half the spirit and strength of her blood.
May the steed that comes nigh her in courage and fire
Carry rider more worthy to make its heart tire;
Though she saved him, and died to prove what she could do,
Yet her life was most precious by far of the two.

I live on the sea and I'm lord of a ship,
That starts from her rest like a hound from the slip;
Her speed is unrivalled, her beauty is rare;
But her timbers are black as the highwayman's mare.
From her keel-spanning beam to her sky-greeting spar
She's as dark as a midnight without moon or star:
Her name, boys! her name, you may easily guess,
She is christened, right nobly, "The Bonnie Black Bess."

Eliza Cook

There's a Star in the West

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

There's a star in the West that shall never go down
Till the records of Valour decay;

We must worship its light, though it is not our own,
For liberty burst in its ray.

Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard
By a freeman and thrill not his breast?

Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word,
As the Bethlehem Star of the West?

"War, war to the knife ! be enthralled or ye die,"
Was the echo that woke in his land;

But it was not his voice that promoted the cry;
Nor his madness that kindled the brand.

He raised not his arm, he defied not his foes,
While a leaf of the olive remained;

Till goaded with insult, his spirit arose,
Like a long-baited lion unchained.

He struck with firm courage the blow of the brave,
But sighed o'er the carnage that spread:

He indignantly trampled the yoke of the slave,
But wept for the thousands that bled.

Though he threw back the fetters and headed the strife
Till Man's charter was fairly restored;

Yet he prayed for the moment when Freedom and Life
Would no longer be pressed by the sword.

Oh, his laurels were pure; and his patriot name
In the page of the Future shall dwell;

And be seen in all annals, the foremost in fame,
By the side of a Hofer and Tell.

The truthful and honest, the wise and the good,
Among Britons have nobly confessed

That his was the glory and ours was the blood
Of the deeply-stained field of the West.

Eliza Cook

Song of the Sailor Boy

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

Cheer up, cheer up, my mother dear!
Ah! Why do you sit and weep?
Do you think that he who guards me here,
Forsakes me on the deep?
Let hope and faith light up your glance,
When you see our ship set sail;
Look, look at her now, and see her dance;
Oh! Why do you turn so pale?
There's an English flag, and an English crew;
So, mother, be proud of your boy in blue.

Ah! Wonder not that, next to thee,
I love the galloping wave;
'Tis the first of coursers, bold and free -
And fit to carry the brave.
It may bear me on to a dark lee-shore,
To sink with a gallant band;
But early or late - here's a heart for my fate,
Let it come on the sea or the land.
The storm and the battle shall find me true,
So, mother, be proud of your boy in blue.

And if the breakers kill our ship,
And your boy goes down in the foam,
Be sure the last breath on his lip
Was a prayer for those at home.
But come, cheer up! methinks I heard
A voice in the anchor chain,
That whispered, like a fairy bird,
"The Ship will come again."
God bless thee, mother, adieu, adieu!
But never weep for your boy in blue.

Eliza Cook

The Old Armchair

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:31:45 +0000

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? -- a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.

In Childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer;
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey:
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled:
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died:
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.

Eliza Cook