Nel Mezzo Del Cammin

Whisper it not that late in years
Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter,
Life be freed of tremor and tears,
Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter.
Ah! but the dream that all endears,
The dream we sell for your pottage of truth---
Give us again the passion of youth,
Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.

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 Building Of The Temple

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Devon

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

On Spion Kop

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The Fighting Téméraire

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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Nel Mezzo Del Cammin

    Whisper it not that late in years
    Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter,
    Life be freed of tremor and tears,
    Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter.
    Ah! but the dream that all endears,
    The dream we sell for your pottage of truth--
    Give us again the passion of youth,
    Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.

Henry John Newbolt

Youth

    His song of dawn outsoars the joyful bird,
        Swift on the weary road his footfall comes;
    The dusty air that by his stride is stirred
        Beats with a buoyant march of fairy drums.
    "Awake, O Earth! thine ancient slumber break;
    To the new day, O slumbrous Earth, awake!"

    Yet long ago that merry march began,
        His feet are older than the path they tread;
    His music is the morning-song of man,
        His stride the stride of all the valiant dead;
    His youngest hopes are memories, and his eyes
    Deep with the old, old dream that never dies.

Henry John Newbolt

Midway

    Turn back, my Soul, no longer set
        Thy peace upon the years to come
    Turn back, the land of thy regret
        Holds nothing doubtful, nothing dumb.

    There are the voices, there the scenes
        That make thy life in living truth
    A tale of heroes and of queens,
        Fairer than all the hopes of youth.

Henry John Newbolt

Egeria's Silence

    Her thought that, like a brook beside the way,
        Sang to my steps through all the wandering year,
    Has ceased from melody--O Love, allay
                My sudden fear!

    She cannot fail--the beauty of that brow
        Could never flower above a desert heart--
    Somewhere beneath, the well-spring even now
                Lives, though apart.

    Some day, when winter has renewed her fount
        With cold, white-folded snows and quiet rain,
    O Love, O Love, her stream again will mount
                And sing again!

Henry John Newbolt

Mezzo Cammin

Half of my life is gone, and I have let
    The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
    The aspiration of my youth, to build
    Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
    Of restless passions chat would not be stilled,
    But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
    Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past
    Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,--
    A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.--
    And hear above me on the autumnal blast
    The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When The Twilight Shadows Deepen.

When the twilight shadows deepen and the far-off lands are dim,
And the vesper dirge is stealing like the chant of cherubim,
There's a prayer within my bosom that's responsive to the sound,
There's a thought that springs within me--but 'tis sad and silence-bound.

There's a sorrow in those shadows as they lengthen on the lawn,
For the joy of life has vanished and its sweetness--all is gone,
And the purple mists of even as they hover o'er the glade
Seem to hush in voiceless gloom the deep recesses of the shade.

Oh thou beyond those heathery hills, beyond those woodlands blue,
Which, as they meet the eastern sky, receive its azure hue,
Ah, must I lonely linger here, where nought but griefs await,
Where life is but one long, long sigh, and all disconsolate?

I'm weep...

Lennox Amott