Charles Harpur

(23 January 1813 – 10 June 1868 / Windsor, New South Wales)

Charles Harpur Poems

1. The Drowned Alive 1/1/2004
2. How Full Of God 1/1/2004
3. Dawn In The Mountains 4/12/2010
4. Dreams Of The Beloved 4/12/2010
5. The Bush Fire 4/12/2010
6. To The Moon [earlier Version] 4/12/2010
7. Virginal Love 4/12/2010
8. Wordsworth 4/12/2010
9. Finality 4/12/2010
10. The End Of The Book 1/1/2004
11. To James Norton Esq. 1/1/2004
12. Forward Ho! 1/1/2004
13. Love, Dreaming Of Death 1/1/2004
14. Song! 1/1/2004
15. Monodies 1/1/2004
16. Song 1/1/2004
17. Gray 4/12/2010
18. The Verse Of Coleridge’s ‘christobel’ 4/12/2010
19. The Hunter's Indian Dove 4/12/2010
20. Marvellous Martin 4/12/2010
21. Emblems 4/12/2010
22. Modern Poetry 4/12/2010
23. My Political Belief 4/12/2010
24. This Southern Land Of Ours 4/12/2010
25. To —— 4/12/2010
26. Yes 4/12/2010
27. Records Of Romantic Passion 4/12/2010
28. Poetry 4/12/2010
29. Eva Gray 4/12/2010
30. Freedom In Faith 4/12/2010
31. Memory's Genesis 4/12/2010
32. To The Comet Of 1843 1/1/2004
33. John Heki 1/1/2004
34. Fragments From 'Genius Lost' 1/1/2004
35. Music 1/1/2004
36. Downward, Through The Blooming Roofage 4/12/2010
37. Greatness 1/1/2004
38. Life And Death 1/1/2004
39. Joshua 1/1/2004
40. Humanity 1/1/2004

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Best Poem of Charles Harpur

A Lament

Flowers in their freshness are flushing the earth,
And the voice-peopled forest is loud in its mirth,
And streams in their fulness are laughing at dearth—
Yet my bosom is aching.
There’s shadow on all things—the shadow of woe—
It falls from my spirit wherever I go,
As from a dark cloud drifting heavy and slow,
For my spirit is weary.

Ah! what can be flowers in their gladness to me,
Or the voices that people the green forest tree,
Or the full joy of streams—since my soul sighs, ah me!
O’er the grave of my Mary.

Under ...

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Early Summer

’Tis the early summer season, when the skies are clear and blue;
When wide warm fields are glad with corn as green as ever grew,
And upland growths of wattles engolden all the view.
Oh! Is there conscious joyance in that heven so clearly blue?
And is it a felt happiness that thus comes beating through
Great nature’s mother heart, when the golden year is new?

When the woods are whitened over by the jolly cockatoo,
And swarm with birds as beautiful as ever gladdened through

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