Edward Coote Pinkney

Edward Coote Pinkney Poems

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
...

ALAS! our pleasant moments fly
On rapid wings away,
While those recorded with a sigh,
Mock us by long delay.
...

Look out upon the stars, my love.
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
...

I BURN no incense, hang no wreath,
On this, thine early tomb:
Such cannot cheer the place of death,
But only mock its gloom.
...

5.

'TWAS eve; the broadly shining sun
Its long, celestial course, had run;
The twilight heaven, so soft and blue,
Met earth in tender interview,
...

Edward Coote Pinkney Biography

Edward Coote Pinkney (October 1, 1802 – April 11, 1828) was an American poet, lawyer, sailor, professor, and editor. Born in London in 1802, Pinkney made his way to Maryland. After attending college, he joined the United States Navy and traveled throughout the Mediterranean and elsewhere. He then attempted a law career but was unsuccessful and attempted to join the Mexican army, though he never did. He died at the age of 26 in 1828. Pinkney published several lyric poems inspired primarily by the work of British poets. Critic and poet Edgar Allan Poe supported Pinkney's work after his death, quoting from his poetry in a lecture series. Poe also suggested Pinkney would have been more successful if he was a New Englander rather than a Southern writer. Pinkney was born on October 1, 1808, in London, where his father William Pinkney was U.S. ambassador and his mother was the sister of Commodore John Rodgers. Pinkney lived in London until he was eight and later attended St. Mary's College of Maryland. In the fall of 1815, 14-year-old Pinkney joined the United States Navy as a midshipman until 1824, during which time he traveled to Italy, northern Africa, the West Indies, and both coasts of South America. His defiance of what he called arbitrary authority got him in trouble occasionally. In 1824, two years after the death of his father, he left the Navy, married, and was admitted to the bar in Maryland. Though he was well-respected in his abilities as a lawyer, he had few clients and the business failed. His wife, Georgiana McCausland, would become a supportive and inspirational figure to him. After serving without a salary as the Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres at the University of Maryland, Pinkney traveled to Mexico with the intention of joining the navy there. Disheartened after not being able to join, he returned to Baltimore. There, he became editor of a new semiweekly newspaper the Marylander—a publication originally founded to support the re-election of John Quincy Adams.[6] Its first issue was published December 3, 1827. His editorial association nearly brought him into a duel with the editor of Philadelphia-based Mercury, a publication which supported Andrew Jackson. Afflicted with depression, Pinkney died on April 11, 1828, at the age of 26. He was originally buried in Baltimore's Unitarian Cemetery but, in May 1872, his body was moved to Green Mount Cemetery.)

The Best Poem Of Edward Coote Pinkney

A Health

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'T is less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words ;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows,
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain ;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon.
Her health ! and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.

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