Rose Hartwick Thorpe

Rose Hartwick Thorpe Poems

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair ―
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
...

Take a seat in the shade here, lady;
It's tiresome, I know, to wait;
But when the train reaches Verona
It's always sure to be late, ―
...

''Tis the last time, darling,' he gently said,
As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,
While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown:
'My own is the prettiest girl in town.
...

In the deepening shades of twilight
Stood a maiden, young and fair;
Rain-drops gleamed on cheek and forehead,
Rain-drops glistened in her hair.
...

'My Fred! I can't understand it,'
And his voice quivered with pain,
While the tears kept slowly dropping
On his trembling hands like rain.
...

Two student lads one morning met
Under the blue-domed Texas skies;
Strangers by birth and station, yet
Youth's heart lies close beneath youth's eyes.
...

Sunset.

A ball of fire suspended
Low o'er a molten sea;
...

'Madam, we miss the train at B_____.'
'But can't you make it, sir?' she gasped.
'Impossible! it leaves at three,
And we are due a quarter past.'
...

A legend of the fuchsia.

Clasping her close in his strong young arms,
As his blue eyes met her own,
...

They stand in the shadow which darkly falls
When the Day-god sleeps in his glory,
Shut in by the gloom of the Alamo walls,
Those heroes who live in Fame's story.
...

Night rolled its sombre curtain back
To greet the dawning day,
Black swept the angry Danube
On its terror-freighted way.
...

Dear heart of my heart,
Throbbing close to my breast
With fondest and truest pulsation,
List while I repeat
...

I stood where the starlit heavens
Spread away over field and glen,
Like the hands of loving angels
Reaching down to the hearts of men.
...

14.

Little child, when twilight shadows
Close the western gates of gold,
Then those loving arms of mother's
Tenderly about thee fold.
...

Fair Margaret! beautiful Margaret!
In the hush of the twilight cold.
The sun on a dazzling throne has set
In a cloud of amber and gold;
...

'Twas seed-time in Heaven; the angel whose care
Is for Eden's blossoms, - that angel more fair
Than all her fair sisters, twin spirits of air, -
That angel whose footsteps, wherever they tread,
...

Silk and diamonds and trailing lace,
Haughty carriage and fair proud face;
Out from the palace towering high
Grand and gray 'neath the bending sky,
...

A legend of merrie England.

Beside the crystal well she stood,
Fair Margaret, Lowther's daughter,
...

Beside St. Joseph's shallow stream,
Whose crystal waters wander,
With drowsy ripple, glint, and gleam,
The bending willows under,
...

Rose Hartwick Thorpe Biography

Rose Hartwick Thorpe (July 18, 1850 – July 19, 1939), American poet and writer, remembered largely for a single narrative poem that gained national popularity. She was born in Mishawaka, Indiana. Among her poems were Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight. She died in San Diego, California. The poem was written while Thorpe resided in Litchfield, Michigan, a small rural town. A bell in the center of the town commemorates the poem and Thorpe's time spent in the town. Litchfield has adopted the title of the poem as something of a symbol, having firetrucks and city website show the symbol of a bell reading "Curfew Shall not Ring Tonight.")

The Best Poem Of Rose Hartwick Thorpe

Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair―
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


'Sexton,' Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold ―
'I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;' and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


'Bessie,' calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
'Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring tonight!'


Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
'At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.'
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, on which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


Out she swung - far out. The city seemed a speck of light below ―
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.
Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.


O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
'Go! your lover lives,' said Cromwell. 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, 'Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring tonight.'

Rose Hartwick Thorpe Comments

Lisa Cava 20 March 2019

She was my grandmother's guardian.

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