The Mission Of The Bard.

    He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring
    Of Art and Nature; and his voice is bold.
    He should be quicker than the birds to sing,
    And fill'd with frenzy like the men of old
    Who sang their songs for country and for king.
    Nothing should daunt him, though the news were told
    By fiends from Hell! He should be swift to hold
    And swift to part with truth, as from a spring.
    He should discourse of war and war's alarm,
    And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought,
    And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm,
    And warlike men subdued by tender thought,
    And grief dismiss'd, and hatred set at nought,
    And Freedom shielded by his strong right arm!

Eric Mackay

Eric Mackay, born on June 1, 1851, was a noted English poet whose work gained recognition in the late 19th century. He is best known for his sonnets and lyrical poetry, which were celebrated for their emotional depth and technical mastery. His most famous work, 'Love Letters of a Violinist,' was well-received during his lifetime. Mackay's contributions to English literature have been acknowledged for their artistic merit. He passed away on June 8, 1898.

Eric Mackay

The Waking Of The Lark.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

A Dirge.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Philomel.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Diffidence.

Eric Mackay, 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.

A Hero.

    The warrior knows how fitful is the fight, -
    How sad to live, - how sweet perchance to die.
    Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height,
    And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry;
    His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.
    Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight,
    When he survives to serve his Land aright
    And make his fame the watchword of the sky.
    In all our hopes his love is with us still;
    He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve.
    His acts are just; his word we must believe,
    And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill
    To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill. -
    Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve!

Eric Mackay

A Veteran Poet.

    I knew thee first as one may know the fame
    Of some apostle, as a man may know
    The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow.
    I hail'd thee prince of poets! I became
    Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame
    Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow
    With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show,
    And all the splendours, Master! of thy name.
    But now, a man reveal'd, a guide for men,
    I see thy face, I clasp thee by the hand;
    And though the Muses in thy presence stand,
    There's room for me to loiter in thy ken.
    O lordly soul! O wizard of the pen!
    What news from God? What word from Fairyland?

Eric Mackay

A Bard's Epitaph.

    Is there a whim-inspired fool,
    Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
    Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
        Let him draw near;
    And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
        And drap a tear.

    Is there a bard of rustic song,
    Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
    That weekly this area throng,
        O, pass not by!
    But with a frater-feeling strong,
        Here heave a sigh.

    Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
    Can others teach the course to steer,
    Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
        Wild as the wave;
    Here pause, and, through the starting tear,
        Survey this grave.

    The poor inhabitant below
    Was quick to learn and wise to know,
    And keen...

Robert Burns

The Wandering Bard.

What life like that of the bard can be--
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,--
A fount that for ever flows!
The world's to him like some playground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;--
If dimmed the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long past and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.--
Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to giv...

Thomas Moore

The Massacre of the Bards

The sunlight from the sky is swept,
But, over Snowdons summit kept,
One brand of cloud yet burns,
By ghostly hands far out of sight,
Held, glowing, in the even-light,
As Fate still keeps the weapon bright
That lingers and returns.

-    -    -    -    -    -

O day of slaughter! Day of woe!
But once, a thousand years ago,
Such day has Britain seen;
When blushed her hoary hills with shame
At Monas sacrifice of flame;
While shrieks from out the burning came
Across the strait between.

Death-helping day! That couldst not find
One weeping cloud to hide behind!
Cursed day whose light was given
For search-mate to the Saxon sword
Through coverts that our rocks afford,
While Edwards godless minions poured
The blood of the uns...

Mary Hannay Foott

Byron.

    He was a god descended from the skies
    To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave,
    And consecrate a hope he could not save;
    For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise.
    Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies,
    And oftentimes his life he did deprave.
    But all do pity him, though none despise.
    He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave.
    He ask'd for tears, - and they were tinged with fire;
    He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him.
    He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim,
    And found it not; then wept upon his lyre.
    He sang the songs of all the world's desire, -
    He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim!

Eric Mackay