Dreamers.

Fools laugh at dreamers, and the dreamers smile
In answer, if they any answer make:
They know that Saxon Alfred could not bake
The oaten cakes, but that he snatched his Isle
Back from the fierce and bloody-handed Dane.

And so, they leave the plodders to their gains -
Quit money changing for the student's lamp,
And tune the harp to gain thereby some camp,
Where what they learn is worth a kingdom's crown;
They fashion bows and arrows to bring down
The mighty truths which sail the upper air;
To them the facts which make the fools despair
Become familiar, and a thousand things
Tell them the secrets they refuse to kings.

James Barron Hope

James Barron Hope was an American poet, lawyer, and orator, celebrated for his patriotic verse and speeches, particularly those pertaining to Virginia's history. Born on March 23, 1829, in Virginia, he became known for his eloquence and literary gifts. His works often reflected the Southern heritage and the tumultuous period of the American Civil War. Hope's contributions to American literature remain a testament to his skill and devotion to his craft. He passed away on September 15, 1887.

James Barron Hope

Arms And The Man. - The Surrender Of Lord Cornwallis.

James Barron Hope, Simple Poetry

A King's Gratitude.

James Barron Hope, Simple Poetry

Arms And The Man. - The Continentals.

James Barron Hope, Simple Poetry

Arms And The Man. - The Embattled Colonies.

James Barron Hope, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Lollingdon Downs VIII

The Kings go by with jewled crowns;
Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.
The sack of many-peopled towns
Is all their dream:
The way they take
Leaves but a ruin in the brake,
And, in the furrow that the plowmen make,
A stampless penny, a tale, a dream.

The Merchants reckon up their gold,
Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories;
The profits of their treasures sold
They tell and sum;
Their foremen drive
Their servants, starved to half-alive,
Whose labors do but make the earth a hive
Of stinking stories; a tale, a dream.

The Priests are singing in their stalls,
Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamors;
Yet God is as the sparrow falls,
The ivy drifts;
The vo...

John Masefield

Fools' Paradise. Dream The First.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,
To a realm they call Fool's Paradise,
Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,
And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.
But they wanted not in this happy place,
Where a light of its own gilds every face;
Or if some wear a shadowy brow,
'Tis the wish to look wise,--not knowing how.
Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there,
The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;
The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,
The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose,
The falling founts in a titter fall,
And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace
The scenes I saw in that joyous place.
There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,
In converse sweet, "What charming weather!--

Thomas Moore

A Friend Of Mine.

We sat beneath tall waving trees that flung
Their heavy shadows o'er the dewy grass.
Over the waters, breaking at our feet,
Quivered the moon, and lighted solemnly
The scene before us.

        He with whom I talked
Was in the noble vigor of his youth:
Tall, much beyond the standard, and well knit,
With a dark, Norman face, from which the breeze
Flung back his locks of ebon darkness which
In rare luxuriance fell around his brow,
That, in its massive beauty, brought me up
Pictures by ancient masters; or the sharp
And perfect features carved by Grecian hands,
In days when Gods, in forms worthy of Gods,
Started from marble to bewitch the world -
A brow so beautiful was his, that one
Might well conceive it always bound with dreams;
His eyes were lum...

James Barron Hope

The Jamestown Anniversary Ode.

In those vast forests dwelt a race of kings,
Free as the eagle when he spreads his wings -
His wings which never in their wild flight lag -
In mists which fly the fierce tornado's flag;
Their flight the eagle's! and their name, alas!
The eagle's shadow swooping o'er the grass,
Or, as it fades, it well may seem to be
The shade of tempest driven o'er the sea.

Fierce, too, this race, as mountain torrent wild,
With haughty hearts, where Mercy rarely smiled -
All their traditions - histories imbued
With tales of war and sanguinary feud,
Yet though they never couched the knightly lance,
The glowing songs of Europe's old romance
Can find their parallels amid the race,
Which, on this spot, met England face to face.
And when they met the white man, hand to hand,<...

James Barron Hope

The Gang

    Our fathers must have sinned: we pay for it!
        Through them the base-born tribe that sold their king
    Sneaked into power, and in high places sit,
        And do their will and wish in everything;
    For they may rob and kill, grieve and disgrace
    All who are left alive of Eiver's race.

    They seized with daring guile on rank and pelf,
        And swore that they would never bend a knee
    Unto the king: they robbed the Church herself:
        They stole our princes' lands, and o'er the sea
    They packed those princes, or drove them away
    To barren rocks and fields that have no clay.

    That spawn of base mechanics! who could ne'er,
        Though Doomsday came, by any art be made
    Noble, are noble now, and have no care:
    ...

James Stephens

Stanzas Written In Anticipation Of Defeat.

^[1]


Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong,
    If we must run the gantlet thro' blood and expense;
Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong,
    Be content with success and pretend not to sense.

If the words of the wise and the generous are vain,
    If Truth by the bowstring must yield up her breath,
Let Mutes do the office--and spare her the pain
    Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death.

Chain, persecute, plunder--do all that you will--
    But save us, at least, the old womanly lore
Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill,
    Is at once the two instruments, AUGUR^[2] and BORE.

Bring legions of Squires--if they'll only be mute--
    And array their thick heads against reason and ...

Thomas Moore