Charles Harpur

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

Charles Harpur Poems

41. Humanity 1/1/2004
42. Poetry And Prose 4/12/2010
43. Could We As Mortals 4/12/2010
44. The Nevers Of Poetry 1/1/2004
45. Outward Bound 1/1/2004
46. To An Echo On The Banks Of The Hunter 1/1/2004
47. To The Rev. John Saunders On His Departure For England 1/1/2004
48. Sonnet 1/1/2004
49. Ecce Homo 1/1/2004
50. The Emigrant's Vision 1/1/2004
51. Like Him Who Great Reports Of Tilth Rejects 4/12/2010
52. The Flight Of Peace 4/12/2010
53. The Tree Of Liberty 4/12/2010
54. The Death Of Shelley 1/1/2004
55. Mary Arden 1/1/2004
56. The Ideal 1/1/2004
57. Words 1/1/2004
58. Regret 1/1/2004
59. The Home Of Peace 1/1/2004
60. The Dream By The Fountain 1/1/2004
61. The Cloud 1/1/2004
62. The Drunkard 4/12/2010
63. The Creek Of The Four Graves [late Version] 4/12/2010
64. The Tower Of The Dream 1/1/2004
65. Hope On 1/1/2004
66. To Poesy 1/1/2004
67. To My Young Countryman D.H.D. 1/1/2004
68. Consolation 4/12/2010
69. Wellington 4/12/2010
70. The Witch Of Hebron 1/1/2004
71. The Vision Of The Rock 1/1/2004
72. The Voice Of The Swamp Oak 1/1/2004
73. To Mary 4/12/2010
74. Morning 4/12/2010
75. The Forgotten 1/1/2004
76. The Babylonian Captivity 1/1/2004
77. The Death Of Sisera 1/1/2004
78. Onward 1/1/2004
79. The Master Mariner’s Song 4/12/2010
80. To My First Born 4/12/2010

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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 ...

Read the full of A Lament

The Drowned Alive

I was one so deeply drowned,
That when the drag my body found,
Twas void of motion, void of breath,
And to sensation dead as death.
In a languid summer mood
I had plunged into a flood,
That to the low sun’s slanting beams
Gleamed with only quiet gleams,
Each with a wide flicker sheeting

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