Mysterious Disapperance. (Prose)

A short time ago Mr. Fitzivitz, of Rank end, was seen to be swimming at a great rate and making a most extensive spread in the river plate. Several friends cautioned him not to go so far out of his depth, but he was utterly heedless of advice, he dived still deeper, and was observed to sink over head and ears in debt, leaving a large circle of friends to bewail his loss. His body has since been recovered, but all that could have comforted his anxious friends had fled, alas for ever.

John Hartley

John Hartley was an English poet who wrote in the Yorkshire dialect. Born on January 1, 1839, in Halifax, West Yorkshire, he was known for his humorous and dialectical poetry, which vividly captured the spirit and culture of Yorkshire. Hartley's works were extremely popular in the 19th century, and he remains a significant figure in regional English literature. He passed away on March 10, 1915.

John Hartley

That Drabbled Brat.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

Nearing Home.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

Advice to Jenny.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

To Mally.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

English

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

A Greyport Legend

They ran through the streets of the seaport town,
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay;
The cold sea-fog that came whitening down
Was never as cold or white as they.
Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden!
Run for your shallops, gather your men,
Scatter your boats on the lower bay.

Good cause for fear! In the thick mid-day
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings and drifted clear,
Drifted clear beyond reach or call,
Thirteen children they were in all,
All adrift in the lower bay!

Said a hard-faced skipper, God help us all!
She will not float till the turning tide!
Said his wife, My darling will hear my call,
Whether in sea or heaven she bide;
And she lifted a qu...

Bret Harte

The Mermaid Of Margate.[1]

"Alas! what perils do environ
That man who meddles with a siren!" - Hudibrus.



On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,
And the sentimental reads;
Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes
Like the ocean - to cast her weeds; -

Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships, -
Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells, -
And the Chandler for watery dips; -

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,
As lovely and fair as sin!
But woe, deep water and woe to him,
That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,
And her locks are golden loose,
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,
To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And all day long she combeth them...

Thomas Hood

Under

    In this house, she said, in this high second storey,
    In this room where we sit, above the midnight street,
    There runs a rivulet, narrow but very rapid,
    Under the still floor and your unconscious feet.

    The lamp on the table made a cone of light
    That spread to the base of the walls: above was in gloom.
    I heard her words with surprise; had I worked here so long,
    And never divined that secret of the room?

    "But how," I asked, "does the water climb so high?"
    "I do not know," she said, "but the thing is there;
    Pull up the boards while I go and fetch you a rod."
    She passed, and I heard her creaking descend the stair.

    And I rose and rolled the Turkey carpet back
    From the two broad boards by the north wall she h...

John Collings Squire, Sir

The Castaway.

Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roard,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.


No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albions coast
With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.


Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away:
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.


He shouted; nor his friends had faild
To check the vessels course,
But so the furious blast prevaild,
That, pitiless perforce,

William Cowper

Isle Of Man

A youth too certain of his power to wade
On the smooth bottom of this clear bright sea,
To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee
Leapt from this rock, and but for timely aid
He, by the alluring element betrayed,
Had perished. Then might Sea-nymphs (and with sighs
Of self-reproach) have chanted elegies
Bewailing his sad fate, when he was laid
In peaceful earth: for, doubtless, he was frank,
Utterly in himself devoid of guile;
Knew not the double-dealing of a smile;
Nor aught that makes men's promises a blank,
Or deadly snare: and He survives to bless
The Power that saved him in his strange distress.

William Wordsworth

Bloodcount

My mind had almost died.

It had refused a game of tag on a common
with surly children and they steadfastly took revenge.

My fate like Blondin's walk across Niagara
saw cataracts looming large,
hiss & foam,
then visions of serpents,
farawy monsters &
inner tension of rocks opening.

The churned, brown water opened like a basket before me.
Maurading bubbles took on elephantine shapes,
my barrel creeked.
Faraway, the edge & drop yawned in indifferent harmony.
The brown walls of my fortress barrel became like palates
& sutures of my skull imprisoning the brain;
the trickle of invading water ever a reminder.

The close of the story?
Nothing. What is there to record after a river passes?
What remains of things unseen, ...

Paul Cameron Brown