Albert Pike (December 29, 1809–April 2, 1891) was an attorney, soldier, writer, and Freemason. Pike is the only Confederate military officer or figure to be honored with an outdoor statue in Washington, D.C. (in Judiciary Square).
Pike was born in Boston, Massachusetts, son of Ben and Sarah (Andrews) Pike, and spent his childhood in Byfield and Newburyport, Massachusetts. His colonial ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Albert Pike Poems
Though the heart hath been sunken in folly and guilt— Though its hopes and its joys on the earth have been spilt— Though its course hath become like the cataract's foam— Still, still it is holy, when thinking on Home.
How many a tongue With words of wondrous eloquence, hath sung Of ' Home, sweet Home!' How the old memories throng, Stirred by the sweet notes of the dear old song,
Hymns To The Gods - No. 11
I. Hear, lovely Chloris, while we sing to thee! Thou restest now beneath some shady tree, Near a swift brook, upon a mossy root; All other winds with deep delight are mute,
Hymns To The Gods - No. 12
I. Kind Comforter of all the weary Gods, With drooping eyelids, head that ever nods! Thou silent soother, that with all thy train
To The Planet Jupiter
Thou art a radiant and imperial star, Planet! whose silver crest beams bright, afar Upon the edge of yonder eastern hill,
Southrons, hear your country call you! Up, lest worse than death befall you! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!
A Lament For Dixie
Southrons, conquered, subjugated, Mourn your country devastated! Mourn for hapless, hopeless Dixie!
Farewell To New England
Farewell to thee, New England! Farewell to thee and thine! Good-bye to leafy Newbury, And Rowley's hills of pine!
The Dying Wife
Dear husband, raise me in thine arms,—the hour is drawing near When I must part with thee, and these our little children dear. Though froward often, I have been a loving, faithful wife, And on thy breast I fain would rest, and breathe away my life.
The First Wild-Flower Of Spring
Young nursling of the Spring and southern mind! Thou comest like tenderness fostered by neglect, Or like new hope within a desert mind, Lonely and beautiful. With new gladness decked,
The Struggle For freedom
The Ancient Wrong rules many a land, whose groans Rise swarming to the stars by day and night, Thronging with mournful clamour round the thrones Where the Archangels sit in God's great light, And, pitying, mourn to see that Wrong still reigns, And tortured Nations writhe in galling chains.
The Old Canoe
Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, And the waters below look dark and deep, Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
The light of morning now begins to thrill Upon the purple mountains, and the gray Mist-robed old pines. Brightly upon the still Deep banks of snow looks out the eye of Day;—
Let us drink, together, fellows, as we did in days of yore, And still enjoy the golden hours that Fortune has in store, The absent friends remembered be, in all that's sung or said, And Love immortal consecrate the memory of the dead.
Comments about Albert Pike
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Though the heart hath been sunken in folly and guilt—
Though its hopes and its joys on the earth have been spilt—
Though its course hath become like the cataract's foam—
Still, still it is holy, when thinking on Home.
Though its tears have been shed like the rains of the spring—
Though it may have grown loath to existence to cling—
Oh, still a sweet thought like a shadow will come,
When the eye of the mind turns again to its Home.
Though the fire of the heart may have withered its core
Unto ashes and dust—though the head have turned hoar
Ere its ...