Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel
Biography of Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel
Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel, also known as Noël (August 27, 1834 - May 26, 1894), was an English poet.
The son of Charles Noel, Lord Barham, afterwards 1st Earl of Gainsborough, he was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained his M.A. in 1858. He then spent two years travelling in the East. In 1863, he married Alice de Broë, daughter of the director of the Ottoman Bank in Beirut. Their third child, Eric, who died aged five, is commemorated in Roden Noel's best-known book of verse, A Little Child's Monument (1881).
His other volumes are:
Behind the Veil, and other Poems (1863), not included in his collected works
Beatrice, and other Poems (1868)
The Red Flag (1872)
Livingstone in Africa (1874)
Songs of the Heights and Deeps (1885)
A Modern Faust, and other Poems (1888)
Poor People's Christmas (1890)
My Sea, and other Poems (1896).
The latter part of his life was spent at Brighton, but he died in the train station of Mainz in Germany. His son Conrad Noel became a Christian Socialist, famous as the "turbulent priest of Thaxted".
Roden Noel's versification was unequal and sometimes harsh, but he has a genuine feeling for nature, and the work is permeated by philosophic thought.
His other works include a drama in verse, The House of Ravensburg (1877), an epic on David Livingstone's expedition in Africa, a Life of Byron (1890, Great Writers series), an edition of Edmund Spenser's poems, a selection of Thomas Otway's plays (1888) for the Mermaid series, and critical papers on literature and philosophy.
His Collected Poems were edited (1902) by his sister, Victoria Buxton, with a notice by John Addington Symonds, which had originally appeared in the Academy (January 19, 1899) as a review of The Modern Faust. The selection (1892) in the series of Canterbury Poets has an introduction by Robert Buchanan.
His poem "Sea Slumber Song" as set to music by Sir Edward Elgar as the first song of his song-cycle Sea Pictures.
Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel Poems
The Explorer In Africa
Yet mine are higher, holier purposes; For I will cleave this darkling continent, As with a sword of intellectual light;
The Polish Mother: A Dramatic Monologue
She looked a matron from the ancient world Of Roman grandeur, tall, pale, proud, black-robed. Strong passion chained, with poignant suffering,
'Pan is not dead, he lives for ever! Mere and mountain, forest, seas, Ocean, thunder, rippling, river, All are living Presences;
SEA-BIRDS are asleep, The world forgets to weep, Sea murmurs her soft slumber-song On the shadowy sand
Ballad Of The Dead Monk; Or, Brother Ben...
I. The monk upon the bier lies dead; Seven tapers burn by him;
Ah! Love Ye One Another Well!
Ah! love ye one another well, For the hour will come When one of you is lying dumb; Ye would give worlds then for a word,
Nay! Byron, nay! not under where we tread, Dumb weight of stone, lies thine imperial head! Into no vault lethargic, dark and dank,
The mage of music, deaf to outward sound, Rehearsing mighty harmonies within, Waved his light wand; the full aerial tides
The Death Of Livingstone
I. 'No mortal power shall turn me: I arise, And will go forward, with my face for ever Toward those fountains of the sacred river,
Ode To England
Arm! England, arm! for all men point the finger Toward thee with scorn they little care to veil: 'Doth not the mouldering hull of England linger
Methinks I hear some solemn state palaver, Held in the grand unwall'd assembling-place, Thatch'd with bamboos and branches, when blue morn
Siren Bowers, And The Triumph Of Bacchus
'Here are bowers In halls of pleasure, Flushed with flowers For love or leisure;
The Gemonian Stairs
Only a slave in Rome of old, A slave for whom none cares! Slaughtered in dungeon-deeps, and rolled Down the Gemonian stairs;
TINTAGEL, from thy precipice of rock, Thou frownest back the vast Atlantic shock! Yet purple twilight in cathedral caves,
A Song At A Waterfall
Athwart the voice of a wild water,
Falling for ever,
Do I hear some song of the foam's daughter
Is it song of a naïad, or bee,
Or a breeze from the tree,
Haunting the cave of the wild water?
For evermore leapeth the fall plashing