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. To Poesy 1/1/2004
66. To My Young Countryman D.H.D. 1/1/2004
67. The Witch Of Hebron 1/1/2004
68. The Vision Of The Rock 1/1/2004
69. Wellington 4/12/2010
70. To Mary 4/12/2010
71. Morning 4/12/2010
72. The Voice Of The Swamp Oak 1/1/2004
73. The Forgotten 1/1/2004
74. The Babylonian Captivity 1/1/2004
75. The Death Of Sisera 1/1/2004
76. Onward 1/1/2004
77. The Master Mariner’s Song 4/12/2010
78. To My First Born 4/12/2010
79. Never Mind 4/12/2010
80. The Tear 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