John Moultrie
John Moultrie Poems
Forget thee? If to dream by night and muse on thee by day;
If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay;
...
Well won and glorious trophies have been thine,
Macaulay, since we two 'together stray'd'
...
Sweet Babe, from griefs and dangers
Rest here for ever free;
We leave thy dust with strangers,
But oh, we leave not
...
Many there be, in these our factious days,
Whose hate would unrelentingly lay low
Crown, coronet, and mitre, at a blow,
...
Within two days, (if registers tell truth)
I and the nineteenth century were born;
Nor let me lightly such memorial scorn
...
Alas! for those, whose bigot zeal would fain
Compress and crush, with Procrustean force,
All energies, all spirits fine and coarse,
...
If aught of pastoral labour, not unblest,
Since youth's maturer prime I may have wrought;
If from the pressure of unquiet thought
...
Three days had we been wedded, when we stood
Within thy well known walls, (my bride and I)
Majestic Ludlow; from a cloudless sky
...
To patient study and unwearied thought,
And wise and watchful nurture of his powers,
Must the true poet consecrate his hours:
...
My sister, we have lived long years apart,
Our mutual visits short and far between,
Like those of angels, yet we have not been
...
I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
...
In gravest toils, at war with phantasy,
Nine years, nine mortal years, have swiftly past,
Since my then youthful Muse unfolded last
...
The hand of Death lay heavy on her eyes,--
For weeks and weeks her vision had not borne
To meet the tenderest light of eve or morn,
...
'Twas my fond wish to greet our wedding day,
My Margaret, with a strain of jocund rhyme,
Such as I used to weave in youth's sweet prime,
...
If I may break my spirit's icy spell,
And free once more the frost-bound stream of song,
To thee, beloved Wife, will first belong
...
Dear friend, they tell me 'tis the happy day
(To me
most
happy) which beheld thy birth,
...
Dear friend, they tell me 'tis the happy day
(To me
most
happy) which beheld thy birth,
...
If I could doubt that, in another sphere
Brighter than this, and ne'er to pass away,
The renovated soul shall live for aye,
...
Not for thy genius, though I deem it high,
Thy clear and deep and comprehensive mind,
Thy vigorous thought, with healthful sense combined,
...
John Moultrie Biography
John Moultrie (December 30, 1799 - December 26, 1874) was an English poet. He was born in London and educated at Eton College, and many of his best verses were contributed to the Etonian. He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1819, and in 1822 entered the Middle Temple. Three years later he was ordained, and was presented to the living of Rugby by Lord Craven. At Rugby he became friends with Thomas Arnold, to whom two of his sonnets are addressed. He published several volumes of verse during his lifetime, and a complete edition of his poems was published in two volumes in 1876 with a memoir by Derwent Coleridge. They include some pieces popular at the time, "Godiva," "Three Minstrels," an account of meetings with Wordsworth, Coleridge and Tennyson, "My Brother’s Grave," and some hymns.)
The Best Poem Of John Moultrie
Forget Thee?
Forget thee? If to dream by night and muse on thee by day;
If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay;
If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power;
If winged thoughts that flit to thee a thousand in an hour;
If busy fancy blending thee with all my future lot--
If this thou call'st forgetting, thou, indeed, shalt be forgot!
Forget thee? Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune;
Forget thee? Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon;
Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew;
Thyself forget thine own dear land, and its mountains wild and blue.
Forget each old familiar face, each long-remember'd spot--
When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!
Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free,
For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me;
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not mine to rove,
But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love;
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not--
Forget me then; but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot!
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