Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895
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CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895.  1895.
  
Index to First Lines
There lies a little city
to You take a town


There lies a little city leagues away
There never were such radiant noons
There’s a joy without canker or cark
There the moon leans out and blesses
There they are, my fifty men and women
There was a gather’d stillness in the room
There was a lady liv’d at Leith
There were four of us about that bed
There were ninety and nine that safely lay
There were three young maids of Lee
The roar of Niagara dies away
The rose thou gav’st at parting
The rosy musk-mallow blooms where the south wind blows
The ruddy sunset lies
The sea is calm to-night
The sea! the sea! the open sea!
These dreary hours of hopeless gloom
These little Songs
The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow
The sonnet is a fruit which long hath slept
The soul of man is larger than the sky
The splendor falls on castle walls
The splendor of the kindling day
The Spring will come again, dear friends
The stream was smooth as glass
The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery’s hundred isles
The sunset in the rosy west
The sun shines on the chamber wall
The swallow, bonny birdie, comes sharp twittering o’er the sea
The swarthy bee is a buccaneer
The tale was this
The thing is but a statue after all!
The time shall come when wrong shall end
The tongue of England, that which myriads
The training-ship Eurydice
The unfathomable sea, and time, and tears
The vale of Tempe had in vain been fair
The victor stood beside the spoil, and by the grinning dead
The villeins clustered round the bowl
The voice that breath’d o’er Eden
The wattles were sweet with September’s rain
The white blossom’s off the bog and the leaves are off the trees
The wind flapp’d loose, the wind was still
The wind of death that softly blows
The wisest of the wise
The world, not hush’d, lay as in trance
They are waiting on the shore
They call her fair. I do not know
The year ’s at the spring
They found it in her hollow marble bed
They hasten, still they hasten
They look’d on each other and spake not
They mock’d the Sovereign of Ghaznin: one saith
They rous’d him with muffins—they rous’d him with ice
They say that Pity in Love’s service dwells
They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier
They shot young Windebank just here
They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead
They told me in their shadowy phrase
They went to sea in a sieve, they did
They were islanders, our fathers were
Thick rise the spear-shafts o’er the land
This case befell at four of the clock
This I got on the day that Goring
This infant world has taken long to make!
This is a spray the bird clung to
This is her picture as she was
This is the convent where they tend the sick
This is the glamour of the world antique
This is the room to which she came that day
This is the way we dress the Doll
This new Diana makes weak men her prey
This peach is pink with such a pink
This region is as lavish of its flowers
This relative of mine
This the house of Circe, queen of charms
Thou art not, and thou never canst be mine
Thou art the flower of grief to me
Thou art the joy of age
Thou didst delight my eyes
Though our great love a little wrong his fame
Though singing but the shy and sweet
Thou hast fill’d me a golden cup
Thou hast lost thy love, poor fool
Thou only bird that singest as thou flyest
Thou that hast a daughter
Thou that once, on mother’s knee
Thou tiny solace of these prison days
Thou too hast travell’d, little fluttering thing
Thou vague dumb crawler with the groping head
Thou wert fair, Lady Mary
Thou whom these eyes saw never, say friends true
Thou wilt forget me
Three fishers went sailing out into the West
Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing
Three twangs of the horn, and they ’re all out of cover!
Through great Earl Norman’s acres wide
Through laughing leaves the sunlight comes
Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it stand
Through the seeding grass
Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went
Thus said the Lord in the vault above the cherubim
Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet, cool air of October
Thy glory alone, O God, be the end of all that I say
Thy greatest knew thee, Mother Earth; unsour’d
Thy name of old was great
Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums
Thy way, not mine, O Lord
Time has a magic wand!
Tintadgel bells ring o’er the tide
T is a stern and startling thing to think
T is a world of silences. I gave a cry
T is bedtime; say your hymn, and bid “Good-night
T is Christmas, and the North wind blows
T is evening now!
T is sair to dream o’ them we like
T is They, of a veritie
To-day, what is there in the air
To murder one so young!
To my true king I offer’d free from stain
Too avid of earth’s bliss, he was of those
Too wearily had we and song
To sea, to sea! The calm is o’er
To soothe a mad King’s fevered brain
To Spend the long warm days
To thee, O father of the stately peaks
To the forgotten dead
To the Wake of O’Hara
To turn my volumes o’er nor find
Touch not that maid
Touch us gently, Time!
To write as your sweet mother does
Tripping down the field-path
Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Twa race doon by the Gatehope-Slack
T was a fierce night when old Mawgan died
T was brillig, and the slithy toves
T was but a poor little room
T was evening, though not sunset, and the tide
T was in mid autumn, and the woods were still
T was in the prime of summer time
T was just before the hay was mown
T was the body of Judas Iscariot
T was the day beside the Pyramids
Twelve years ago, when I could face
Twist me a crown of wind-flowers
Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom
Twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums
Two gaz’d into a pool, he gaz’d and she
Two souls diverse out of our human sight
Two stars once on their lonely way
Two voices are there: one is of the deep
Two winged genii in the air
Two worlds hast thou to dwell in, Sweet
Tyre of the West, and glorying in the name
 
Under her gentle seeing
Under the wide and starry sky
Up into the cherry tree
Up, my dogs, merrily
Upon a day in Ramadan
Upon St. Michael’s Isle
Up the airy mountain
Up the dale and down the bourne
 
Vainly for us the sunbeams shine
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Vasari tells that Luca Signorelli
Venice, thou Siren of sea-cities, wrought
 
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea
Wait but a little while
Wake! For the Sun who scatter’d into flight
Wales England wed; so I was bred
Was sorrow ever like unto our sorrow?
Watchman, tell us of the night
Water, for anguish of the solstice:—nay
We are as mendicants who wait
We are born; we laugh; we weep
We are in love’s land to-day
We are what suns and winds and waters make us
We crown’d the hard-won heights at length
We do lie beneath the grass
Weep not! tears must vainly fall
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town
We have been friends together
We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly, O Love
Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!
We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack
Welcome, old friend! These many years
We ’ll a’ go pu’ the heather
We ’ll not weep for summer over
We meet ’neath the sounding rafter
We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit ’s fire
Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him
Were you ever in sweet Tipperary
Werther had a love for Charlotte
We saw the swallows gathering in the sky
We shall lodge at the sign of the Grave, you say
We stand upon the moorish mountain side
We stood so steady
West wind, blow from your prairie nest
We ’ve fought with many men acrost the seas
We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night
We were playing on the green together
What are the bugles blowin’ for? said Files-on-Parade
What are the Vision and the Cry
What cometh here from west to east a-wending?
What curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed
What days await this woman, whose strange feet
Whate’er of woe the Dark may hide in womb
What holds her fixed far eyes nor lets them range?
What makes a hero?—not success, not fame
What might be done if men were wise
What of her glass without her? The blank gray
What power is this? what witchery wins my fee
What reck we of the creeds of men?
What sawest thou, Orion, thou hunter of the star-lands
What saw you in your flight to-day
What shall my gift be to the dead one lying
What should a man desire to leave?
What though thy Muse the singer’s art essay
What voice did on my spirit fall
What was he doing, the great god Pan
What was’t awaken’d first the untried ear
Wheer ’asta beän saw long and meä liggin’ ’ere aloän?
When a’ ither bairnies are hush’d to their hame
When at close of winter’s night
When do I see thee most, beloved one?
Whene’er across this sinful flesh of mine
Whene’er there comes a little child
When first the unflowering Fern-forest
When from my lips the last faint sigh is blown
When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face
When He returns, and finds the world so drear
When I am dead and I am quite forgot
When I am dead, my spirit
When I was dead, my spirit turn’d
When I was sick and lay a-bed
When Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year
When, lov’d by poet and painter
When mirth is full and free
When my Clorinda walks in white
When my feet have wander’d
When on my country walks I go
When on the breath of autumn breeze
When our heads are bow’d with woe
When russet beech-leaves drift in air
When stars are in the quiet skies
When the dumb Hour, cloth’d in black
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold
When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces
When the last bitterness was past, she bore
When the soul sought refuge in the place of rest
When, think you, comes the Wind
When we are parted let me lie
When we were girl and boy together
When you are dead some day, my dear
Where are the swallows fled?
Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?
Where Ausonian summers glowing
Where did you come from, baby dear?
Where, girt with orchard and with olive-yard
Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
Where shall we learn to die?
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
Where wert thou, Soul, ere yet my body born
Whethen is it yourself, Mister Hagan?
Which is more sweet,—the slow mysterious stream
Which of the Angels sang so well in Heaven
Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear
White little hands!
Whither is gone the wisdom and the power
Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding
Who calls me bold because I won my love
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who has not walk’d upon the shore
Whom the gods love die young
Who remains in London
Whosoe’er
Who will away to Athens with me? who
Why groaning so, thou solid earth
Why, let them rail! God’s full anointed ones
Why, when the world’s great mind
Why will you haunt me unawares
Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair?
Widow Machree, it ’s no wonder you frown
Wild huntsmen?—’T was a flight of swans
Wild, wild wind, wilt thou never cease they sighing?
Will there never come a season
With breath of thyme and bees that hum
With deep affection
Wither’d pansies faint and sweet
With fingers weary and worn
With half a heart I wander here
Within a low-thatch’d hut, built in a lane
Within the unchanging twilight
With little white leaves in the grasses
With pipe and flute the rustic Pan
With purple glow at even
With rosy hand a little girl press’d down
Word was brought to the Danish king
Would God my heart were greater; but God wot
Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build
 
Yea, love, I know, and I would have it thus
Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear
Year after year
Year after year I sit for them
Ye are young, ye are young
Yes, Cara mine, I know that I shall stand
Yes; I write verses now and then
Yes, love, the Spring shall come again
Yes! thou art fair, and I had lov’d
Yes; when the ways oppose
Yon silvery billows breaking on the beach
You ask for fame or power?
You had two girls—Baptiste
You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon
You lay a wreath on murder’d Lincoln’s bier
You may give over plough, boys
You must be troubled, Asthore
Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn
Young Sir Guyon proudly said
You promise heavens free from strife
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass
Your tiny picture makes me yearn
You smil’d, you spoke, and I believ’d
You take a town you cannot keep

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