Imogen

(A Lady of Tender Age)

Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing,
    Where were they glancing yester-night?
Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing,
    Imogen dancing all in white?
    Laughed she not with a pure delight,
    Laughed she not with a joy serene,
Stepped she not with a grace entrancing,
    Slenderly girt in silken sheen?

All through the night from dusk to daytime
    Under her feet the hours were swift,
Under her feet the hours of play-time
    Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift:
    Music set her adrift, adrift,
    Music eddying towards the day
Swept her along as brooks in May-time
    Carry the freshly falling May.

Ladies, life is a changing measure,
    Youth is a lilt that endeth soon;
Pluck ye never so fast at pleasure
    Twilight follows the longest noon.
    Nay, but here is a lasting boon,
    Life for hearts that are old and chill,
Youth undying for hearts that treasure
    Imogen dancing, dancing still.

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

Gold

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Sir Hugh the Palmer

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Devon

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Gillespie.

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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Imogen

Even she too dead! all languor on her brow,
All mute humanity's last simpleness, -
And yet the roses in her cheeks unfallen!
Can death haunt silence with a silver sound?
Can death, that hushes all music to a close,
Pluck one sweet wire scarce-audible that trembles,
As if a little child, called Purity,
Sang heedlessly on of his dear Imogen?
Surely if some young flowers of Spring were put
Into the tender hollow of her heart,
'Twould faintly answer, trembling in their petals.
Poise but a wild bird's feather, it will stir
On lips that even in silence wear the badge
Only of truth. Let but a cricket wake,
And sing of home, and bid her lids unseal
The unspeakable hospitality of her eyes.
O childless soul - call once her husband's name!
And even if indeed from th...

Walter De La Mare

An English Girl

A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,
In her magnificent comeliness,
Is an English girl of eleven stone two,
And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!
She follows the hounds, and on she pounds -
The "field" tails off and the muffs diminish -
Over the hedges and brooks she bounds -
Straight as a crow, from find to finish.
At cricket, her kin will lose or win -
She and her maids, on grass and clover,
Eleven maids out - eleven maids in -
(And perhaps an occasional "maiden over").
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!

With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,
She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims -
She plays, she sings, she dances,...

William Schwenck Gilbert

Belle Of The Ball, The

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams
    Had been of being wise and witty,
Ere I had done with writing themes,
    Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;
Years, years ago, while all my joy
    Was in my fowling-piece and filly:
In short, while I was yet a boy,
    I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the county ball;
    There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall
    Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
    Of all that set young hearts romancing:
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
    And when she danced, O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
    Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
    I never saw a...

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Defton Wood.

I held my way through Defton Wood,
    And on to Wandor Hall;
The dancing leaf let down the light,
    In hovering spots to fall.
"O young, young leaves, you match me well,"
    My heart was merry, and sung -
"Now wish me joy of my sweet youth;
    My love - she, too, is young!
        O so many, many, many
    Little homes above my head!
        O so many, many, many
    Dancing blossoms round me spread!
        O so many, many, many
    Maidens sighing yet for none!
        Speed, ye wooers, speed with any -
    Speed with all but one."

I took my leave of Wandor Hall,
    And trod the woodland ways.
"What shall I do so long to bear
    The burden of my days?"
I sighed my heart into the boughs
    Whereby the culvers cooed;

Jean Ingelow

The Ladies Of St. James's.

A Proper New Ballad Of The Country And The Town.

"Phyllida amo ante alias."
Virg.


The ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breeze...

Henry Austin Dobson

Sephina

Black lacqueys at the wide-flung door
    Stand mute as men of wood.
Gleams like a pool the ballroom floor,
            A burnished solitude.
    A hundred waxen tapers shine
    From silver sconces; softly pine
    'Cello, fiddle, mandoline,
            To music deftly wooed,
And dancers in cambric, satin, silk,
With glancing hair and cheeks like milk,
            Wreathe, curtsey, intertwine.

The drowse of roses lulls the air
Wafted up the marble stair.
Like warbling water clucks the talk.
From room to room in splendour walk
Guests, smiling in the æry sheen;
Carmine and azure, white and green,
They stoop and languish, pace and preen
            Bare shoulder, painted fan,
Gemmed wrist and finger, neck of swan;
And still the pluckt s...

Walter De La Mare