Lines To A Lady, On Hearing Her Sing "Cushlamachree."

Yes! heaven protect thee, thou gem of the ocean;
Dear land of my sires, though distant thy shores;
Ere my heart cease to love thee, its latest emotion,
The last dying throbs of its pulse must be o'er.

And dark were the bosom, and cold and unfeeling,
That tamely could listen unmoved at the call,
When woman, the warm soul of melody stealing,
Laments for her country and sighs o'er its fall.

Sing on, gentle warbler, the tear-drop appearing
Shall fall for the woes of the queen of the sea;
And the spirit that breathes in the harp of green Erin,
Descending, shall hail thee her "Cushlamachree."

Joseph Rodman Drake

Joseph Rodman Drake was a notable American poet, remembered for his contribution to early American literature. One of his most famous poems is 'The American Flag,' which he co-wrote with his close friend Fitz-Greene Halleck. Despite his short life, Drake left a lasting legacy, and his works are still appreciated today. He was a contemporary of other poets like William Cullen Bryant and Washington Irving. Drake's literary work primarily captures the early 19th-century American spirit and identity.

Joseph Rodman Drake

To A Lady With A Withered Violet.

Joseph Rodman Drake, Simple Poetry

Written In A Lady's Album.

Joseph Rodman Drake, Simple Poetry

Fragment.

Joseph Rodman Drake, Simple Poetry

Niagara.

Joseph Rodman Drake, 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.

Lines To Miss ---- ,

Upon Her Appearing At A Ball In An Elegant Plaid Dress,

And Having Repeatedly Before Expressed Her Preference Of The Scotish Nation.


Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;
Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd
Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword;
Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous eye,
O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly;
For here the warrior oft has rais'd his sword,
The patriot too his noble blood has pour'd;
Here too the sweet Recorder of the brave
Has sat and sung up...

John Carr

The Highland Lassie.

Tune - "The deuks dang o'er my daddy!"


I.

    Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
    Shall ever be my muse's care:
    Their titles a' are empty show;
    Gie me my Highland lassie, O.
            Within the glen sae bushy, O,
            Aboon the plains sae rushy, O,
            I set me down wi' right good-will,
            To sing my Highland lassie, O.

II.

    Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
    Yon palace and yon gardens fine,
    The world then the love should know
    I bear my Highland lassie, O.

III.

    But fickle fortune frowns on me,
    And I maun cross the raging sea;
    But while my crimson currents flow,
    I'll love my Highland lassie, O.

IV.

    A...

Robert Burns

Erin, Mavourneen.

A Prize Poem.


I know Canada is fair to see, and pleasant; it is well
On the banks of its broad river 'neath the maple trees to dwell;
But the heart is very wilful, and in sorrow or in mirth,
Mine will turn with sore love-longing to the land that gave me birth;
And I wish that, oh but once again! my longing eyes might see
The green island that lies smiling on the bosom of the sea;
That is fed with heaven's dew and the fatness of the earth,
Fanned by wild Atlantic breezes that sweep over it in mirth.

Its green robe is starred with daisies; it is brilliant fresh and fair,
With a verdure that no other spot of earth affords to wear.
It has banks of pale primroses that like bits of moonlight glow;
There are hawthorn hedges blossomed out like drifts of perfumed snow,

Nora Pembroke

Lines To A Shamrock - A Song Of Exile

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair
    As the sweet rose to other eyes might be,
Because its leaves spread in my native air,
    And the same land gave birth to it and me.

They were as plentiful as drops of dew
    In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,
Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,
    Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair

Because I dwelt with my own people then,
    Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,
That from my cradle loved me, and again
    We'll never meet--spoken our last adieu

I am a stranger here, I have not seen
    One friendly face of all that I have known,
And my heart mourns for thee my island green,
    Because I am a stranger and alone

So thou art welcome as a friend to me,
...

Nora Pembroke

On The Seas And Far Away.

Tune - "O'er the hills," &c.


I.

    How can my poor heart be glad,
    When absent from my sailor lad?
    How can I the thought forego,
    He's on the seas to meet the foe?
    Let me wander, let me rove,
    Still my heart is with my love:
    Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day,
    Are with him that's far away.
            On the seas and far away,
            On stormy seas and far away;
            Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day,
            Are ay with him that's far away.

II.

    When in summer's noon I faint,
    As weary flocks around me pant,
    Haply in this scorching sun
    My sailor's thund'ring at his gun:
    Bullets, spare my only joy!
    Bullets, spare my darling boy!
...

Robert Burns

She Is Far From The Land.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
    And lovers are round her, sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
    For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
    Every note which he loved awaking;--
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
    How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
    They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
    Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
    When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
    From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore