Wednesday, July 04, 2012

Happy Birthday Nathaniel Hawthorne !

Nathaniel Hawthorne
Today is the birthday of an American novelist and short story writer Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne (July 4, 1804 – May 19, 1864) published his first work, a novel titled Fanshawe, in 1828. He published several short stories in various periodicals which he collected in 1837 as Twice-Told Tales. Much of Hawthorne's writing centers on New England, many works featuring moral allegories with a Puritan inspiration. His fiction works are considered part of the Romantic movement and more specifically, dark romanticism. His themes often center on the inherent evil and sin of humanity and his works often have moral messages and deep psychological complexity. His published works include novels, short stories, and a biography of his friend Franklin Pierce. Presenting some poems : Being Poet
EARTHLY POMP
H, earthly pomp is but a dream,
And like a meteor's short-lived gleam;
And all the sons of glory soon
Will rest beneath the mould'ring stone.
And Genius is a star whose light
Is soon to sink in endless night,
And heavenly beauty's angel form
Will bend like flower in winter's storm.
ADDRESS TO THE MOON
OW sweet the silver Moon's pale ray,
Falls trembling on the distant bay,
O'er which the breezes sigh no more,
Nor billows lash the sounding shore.
Say, do the eyes of those I love,
Behold thee as thou soar'st above,
Lonely, majestic and serene,
The calm and placid evening's Queen?
Say, if upon thy peaceful breast,
Departed spirits find their rest,
For who would wish a fairer home,
Than in that bright, refulgent dome?
THE DARKEN'D VEIL
H could I raise the darken'd veil
Which hides my future life from me,
Could unborn ages slowly sail
Before my view -- and could I see
My every action painted there,
To cast one look I would not dare.
There poverty and grief might stand,
And dark Despair's corroding hand,
Would make me seek the lonely tomb
To slumber in its endless gloom.
Then let me never cast a look,
Within Fate's fix'd mysterious book.
FORMS OF HEROES
E Forms of Heroes slumb'ring here,
Beneath these tombstones cold and drear,
On which the moss of age has slept,
Since one fond heart has o'er you wept,
Oh tell me, if a Mortal's prayer,
Can ever wake your spirits, where
They sleep the dark dread sleep of death.
Tell me if now the laurel wreath,
Which Glory twin'd around your head,
Can wake amid the silent dead,
One glance of that proud martial blaze
Which led your feet in slaughter's ways.
GO TO THE GRAVE
O to the grave where friends are laid,
And learn how quickly mortals fade,
Learn how the fairest flower must droop,
Learn how the strongest form must stoop,
Learn that we are but dust and clay,
The short-liv'd creatures of a day.
Yet do not sigh -- there is a clime,
Where they will dwell through endless time,
Who here on earth their Maker serve,
And never from his precepts swerve.
The grave to them is but a road,
That leads them to that blest abode.
THE OCEAN
HE Ocean has its silent caves,
Deep, quiet and alone;
Though there be fury on the waves,
Beneath them there is none.
The awful spirits of the deep
Hold their communion there;
And there are those for whom we weep,
The young, the bright, the fair.
Calmly the wearied seamen rest
Beneath their own blue sea.
The ocean solitudes are blest,
For there is purity.
The earth has guilt, the earth has care,
Unquiet are its graves;
But peaceful sleep is ever there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.
MY LOW AND HUMBLE HOME
LEFT my low and humble home,
Far from my Father's fields to roam.
My peaceful cot no more had charms,
My only joy was War's alarms.
I panted for the field of fight,
I gaz'd upon the deathless light,
Which o'er the Hero's grave is shed,
The glorious memory of the dead.
Ambition show'd a distant star,
That shed its radiance bright and far,
And pointed to a path which led
O'er heaps of dying and of dead;
Onward I press'd with eager feet,
And War's dread thunder still would greet
My reckless ears. Where'er I trod,
I saw the green and verdant sod,
Turn red with blood of slaughter'd foes,
And Fury veil'd in smoke arose.
I gain'd the envied height; and there,
I sigh'd for that lone cottage, where
The early hours of life flew by,
On wings of youthful ecstasy.
Too late I found that Glory's ray,
Could never bring one happy day.