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 Midsummer Noon In The Australian Forest

A MIDSUMMER NOON IN THE AUSTRALIAN FOREST

Not a bird disturbs the air!
There is quiet everywhere;
Over plains and over woods
What a mighty stillness broods.

Even the grasshoppers keep
[All the birds and insects keep]
Where the coolest shadows sleep;
Even the busy ants are found
Resting in their pebbled mound;
Even the locust clingeth now
In silence to the barky bough:
And over hills and over plains
Quiet, vast and slumbrous, reigns.

Only there's a drowsy humming
From yon warm lagoon slow coming:
'Tis the dragon-hornet ...

Read the full of A Midsummer Noon In The Australian Forest

Ecce Homo

A man of sorrows and with grief acquainted,
He bowed His beauteous head to the rude hands
Of Pilate’s hireling bands;
And while beneath their cruel scourge He fainted,
Forgave them, yearning through His shameful smart
Even with a brother’s heart.
And when upon their Roman cross they nailed Him,
With mocking hatred and scorn’s bitter smile,
Hark! How He prayed, the while

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