Peter Cooper

Give honor and love for evermore
To this great man gone to rest;
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore,
Rest in the land of the blest.

I reckon him greater than any man
That ever drew sword in war;
I reckon him nobler than king or khan,
Braver and better by far.

And wisest he in this whole wide land
Of hoarding till bent and gray;
For all you can hold in your cold dead hand
Is what you have given away.

So whether to wander the stars or to rest
Forever hushed and dumb,
He gave with a zest and he gave his best
Give him the best to come.

Joaquin Miller

Joaquin Miller, born Cincinnatus Heine Miller, was an American poet and frontiersman known for his romanticized views of the American West. Dubbed the 'Poet of the Sierras,' Miller's works often reflected the landscapes and legends of the American frontier. He was celebrated in the late 19th century but has since become a more obscure literary figure. Despite this, his contributions offer a fascinating glimpse into a period of American history steeped in exploration and adventure.

Joaquin Miller

The Defence Of The Alamo

Joaquin Miller, Simple Poetry

The Voice Of The California Dove

Joaquin Miller, Simple Poetry

His Broad Brimmed Hat Push'd Back With Careless Air

Joaquin Miller, Simple Poetry

In Southern California

Joaquin Miller, 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.

The Dying Hero.

    His greatness hath not left him; till the years
        Have won the nation from her children dead,
    And robbed her of remembrance where she rears
        Her monuments above the blood they shed,
    Will his name want for homage; with sad fears
        The Union winds her garlands o'er his head,
    And fondly wreathes her love, bedewed with tears,
        To bless the hero on his dying bed.

    His luster lives untarnished; as he lies
        Where Malady has bound him in wild pain,
    And only Death can loose the heavy chain
        That galls her captive while his nature dies,
    He seems far greater in his country's eyes,
        Than if an Appomattox spake again.

Freeman Edwin Miller

In Remembrance Of Joseph Sturge

"In the fair land o'erwatched by Ischia's mountains,
Across the charmed bay
Whose blue waves keep with Capri's silver fountains
Perpetual holiday,

A king lies dead, his wafer duly eaten,
His gold-bought masses given;
And Rome's great altar smokes with gums to sweeten
Her foulest gift to Heaven.

And while all Naples thrills with mute thanksgiving,
The court of England's queen
For the dead monster so abhorred while living
In mourning garb is seen.

With a true sorrow God rebukes that feigning;
By lone Edgbaston's side
Stands a great city in the sky's sad raining,
Bareheaded and wet-eyed!

Silent for once the restless hive of labor,
Save the low funeral tread,
Or voice of craftsman whispering to his neighbor
The good deeds of ...

John Greenleaf Whittier

In Memoriam. - Colonel Samuel Colt,

Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.


And hath he fallen,--whom late we saw
    In manly vigor bold?
That stately form,--that noble face,
    Shall we no more behold?--
Not now of the renown we speak
    That gathers round his name,
For other climes beside our own
    Bear witness to his fame;

Nor of the high inventive power
    That stretched from zone to zone,
And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,--
    For these to all are known;--
Nor of the love his liberal soul
    His native City bore,
For she hath monuments of this
    Till memory is no more;

Nor of the self-reliant force
    By which his way he told,
Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd
    All enterprise to gold,
And made the indignan...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

Paul Jones

        A century of silent suns
            Have set since he was laid on sleep,
        And now they bear with booming guns
            And streaming banners o'er the deep
        A withered skin and clammy hair
            Upon a frame of human bones:
        Whose corse?    We neither know nor care,
            Content to name it John Paul Jones.

        His dust were as another's dust;
            His bones--what boots it where they lie?
        What matter where his sword is rust,
            Or where, now dark, his eagle eye?
        No foe need fear his arm again,
            Nor love, nor praise can make him whole;
        But o'er the farthest sons of men
            Will brood the glory of his soul.

        Careless though cenotaph or to...

John Charles McNeill

Stanzas.

    God bless the man who gave us rest
        And him who taught us play,
    For kindness reigned within his breast
        To all our sorrow slay;
    The weary heart, the fainting limb,
        The soul that droops in woe,
    Should most unceasing praise on him
        In gratitude bestow.

    He is the hero of the race,
        The toiling nation's friend,
    For pity smiles upon his face
        With joys that never end;
    He tears away the iron gyves
        That chain our best repose,
    And makes the deserts of our lives
        To blossom as the rose.

    He pours his balms into the wound
        Of bosom weak and sad,
    Till holy pleasures flit around
        And all the heart is glad;
    Till all is sweet tha...

Freeman Edwin Miller

A Parting Health - To J. L. Motley

Yes, we knew we must lose him, - though friendship may claim
To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame;
Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own,
'T is the whisper of love when the bugle has blown.

As the rider that rests with the spur on his heel,
As the guardsman that sleeps in his corselet of steel,
As the archer that stands with his shaft on the string,
He stoops from his toil to the garland we bring.

What pictures yet slumber unborn in his loom,
Till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall bloom,
While the tapestry lengthens the life-glowing dyes
That caught from our sunsets the stain of their skies!

In the alcoves of death, in the charnels of timid,
Where flit the gaunt spectres of passion and crime,
There are triumph...

Oliver Wendell Holmes