Charles Harpur

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

Charles Harpur Poems

81. The Tear 1/1/2004
82. Love 1/1/2004
83. The Past 1/1/2004
84. To - 1/1/2004
85. The Battle Of Life 1/1/2004
86. To Doctor Lang 1/1/2004
87. Andrew Marvell 1/1/2004
88. Shakespeare 1/1/2004
89. Description Of A Tropical Island 1/1/2004
90. Love Sonnets 1/1/2004
91. Ned Connor 4/12/2010
92. The Anchor 1/1/2004
93. To The Moon 1/1/2004
94. A Coast View 1/1/2004
95. Early Summer 1/1/2004
96. Hope On 1/1/2004
97. A Poet's Home 4/12/2010
98. Dora 1/1/2004
99. A Dream Of The Orient 1/1/2004
100. Absence 4/12/2010
101. An Anthem For The Australasian League 4/12/2010
102. A Hunter's Indian Dove 1/1/2004
103. Asking In Vain 1/1/2004
104. A Sonnet Dedicated To Sir George Gipps 4/12/2010
105. Collins 4/12/2010
106. A Similitude 1/1/2004
107. Bush Justice 4/12/2010
108. Burns 4/12/2010
109. A Flight Of Wild Ducks 4/12/2010
110. The Temperance Movement 1/1/2004
111. Change And Death 1/1/2004
112. A Basket Of Summer Fruit 4/12/2010
113. Coleridge's Cristabel 1/1/2004
114. Australia's First Great Poet 1/1/2004
115. A Love Fancy 1/1/2004
116. A Poet To... 1/1/2004
117. Trust In God 1/1/2004
118. Cora 1/1/2004
119. A Storm In The Mountains 1/1/2004
120. An Aboriginal Mothers's Lament 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.

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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