Against Oblivion

    Cities drowned in olden time
    Keep, they say, a magic chime
    Rolling up from far below
    When the moon-led waters flow.

    So within me, ocean deep,
    Lies a sunken world asleep.
    Lest its bells forget to ring,
    Memory! set the tide a-swing!

Henry John Newbolt

Sir Henry John Newbolt was an English poet and author, famous for his ballads such as 'Vitaï Lampada'. He graduated from Oxford and was called to the bar, but he is better remembered for his literary contributions than his legal career. Newbolt served as a government advisor on military and naval literature during World War I. He was knighted in 1915 for his services to literature. Newbolt's work often reflected themes of patriotism and duty.

Henry John Newbolt

The Faun

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Nel Mezzo Del Cammin

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Pereunt Et Imputantur

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Gold

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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The City Of Darkness

Wide-walled it stands in heathen lands
Beside a mystic sea,
With streets strange-trod of many a god,
And templed blasphemy.

Far in the night, a rose of light
It shines beside the sea;
But overhead an unknown dread
Impends eternally.

There is a sound above, around
Of music by the sea;
And weird and wide the torches glide
Of pagan revelry.

There is a noise as of a voice
That calls beneath the sea;
And all the deep grows pale with sleep
And vague expectancy.

Then slowly up - as from a cup
Seethes poison - lifts the sea;
Wild mass on mass, as in black glass,
The town glows fiery.

Red-lit it glowers like Hell's dark towers
Set in the iron sea;
And monster swarms with awful forms
Roll though it cloudil...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Beleaguered City.

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
    Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
    Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
    With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
    The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
    The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
    The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
    No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
    As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell
    Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
    On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Songs of the Fleet - Sailing at Dawn

    One by one the pale stars die before the day now,
        One by one the great ships are stirring from their sleep,
    Cables all are rumbling, anchors all a-weigh now,
        Now the fleet's a fleet again, gliding towards the deep.

            Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound upon the old ways,
                Splendour of the past comes shining in the spray;
            Admirals of old time, bring us on the bold ways!
                Souls of all the sea-dogs, lead the line to-day!

    Far away behind us town and tower are dwindling,
        Home becomes a fair dream faded long ago;
    Infinitely glorious the height of heaven is kindling,
        Infinitely desolate the shoreless sea below.

            Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound ...

Henry John Newbolt

Midnight.
Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep
Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide
The mighty city under thy full tide;
Making a silent palace for old Sleep,
Like his own temple under the hush'd deep,
Where all the busy day he doth abide,
And forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide

His dusky wings, whence the cold waters sweep!
How peacefully the living millions lie!
Lull'd unto death beneath his poppy spells;
There is no breath - no living stir - no cry
No tread of foot - no song - no music-call -
Only the sound of melancholy bells -
The voice of Time - survivor of them all!
Thomas Hood

Amalfi
Sweet the memory is to me
Of a land beyond the sea,
Where the waves and mountains meet,
Where, amid her mulberry-trees
Sits Amalfi in the heat,
Bathing ever her white feet
In the tideless summer seas.

In the middle of the town,
From its fountains in the hills,
Tumbling through the narrow gorge,
The Canneto rushes down,
Turns the great wheels of the mills,
Lifts the hammers of the forge.

'T is a stairway, not a street,
That ascends the deep ravine,
Where the torrent leaps between
Rocky walls that almost meet.
Toiling up from stair to stair
Peasant girls their burdens bear;
Sunburnt daughters of the soil,
Stately figures tall and straight,
What inexorable fate
Dooms them to this life of toil?

Lord of vineyards...
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Beleaguered City.
I have read, in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
William Henry Giles Kingston