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Best Famous James Henry Leigh Hunt Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous James Henry Leigh Hunt poems. This is a select list of the best famous James Henry Leigh Hunt poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous James Henry Leigh Hunt poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of james henry leigh hunt poems.

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Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

The Negro Boy

 Paupertas onus visa est grave.
Cold blows the wind, and while the tear Bursts trembling from my swollen eyes, The rain's big drop, quick meets it there, And on my naked bosom flies! O pity, all ye sons of Joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy.
These tatter'd clothes, this ice-cold breast By Winter harden'd into steel, These eyes, that know not soothing rest, But speak the half of what I feel! Long, long, I never new one joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy! Cannot the sigh of early grief Move but one charitable mind? Cannot one hand afford relief? One Christian pity, and be kind? Weep, weep, for thine was never joy, O little wand'ring Negro-boy! Is there a good which men call Pleasure? O Ozmyn, would that it were thine! Give me this only precious treasure; How it would soften grief like mine! Then Ozmyn might be call'd, with joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy! My limbs these twelve long years have borne The rage of ev'ry angry wind: Yet still does Ozmyn weep and mourn, Yet still no ease, no rest can find! Then death, alas, must soon destroy The little wand'ring Negro-boy! No sorrow e'er disturbs the rest, That dwells within the lonely grave; Thou best resource, the wo-wrung breast E'er ask'd of Heav'n, or Heav'n e'er gave! Ah then, farewell, vain world, with joy I die the happy Negro-boy!

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

To a Fish

 You strange, astonished-looking, angle-faced, 
Dreary-mouthed, gaping wretches of the sea, 
Gulping salt-water everlastingly, 
Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced, 
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste; 
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,-- 
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry, 
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste:-- 

O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, 
What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull goggles? 
How do ye vary your vile days and nights? 
How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles 
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites, 
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

The Glove and The Lions

 King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another; Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there.
" De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
"By God!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that.

More great poems below...

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

Abou Ben Adhem

 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:— 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord.
" "And is mine one?" said Abou.
"Nay, not so," Replied the angel.
Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men.
" The angel wrote, and vanished.
The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

Robin Hood An Outlaw.

 Robin Hood is an outlaw bold
Under the greenwood tree;
Bird, nor stag, nor morning air
Is more at large than he.
They sent against him twenty men, Who joined him laughing-eyed; They sent against him thirty more, And they remained beside.
All the stoutest of the train, That grew in Gamelyn wood, Whether they came with these or not, Are now with Robin Hood.
And not a soul in Locksley town Would speak him an ill word; The friars raged; but no man's tongue, Nor even feature stirred; Except among a very few Who dined in the Abbey halls; And then with a sigh bold Robin knew His true friends from his false.
There was Roger the monk, that used to make All monkery his glee; And Midge, on whom Robin had never turned His face but tenderly; With one or two, they say, besides, Lord! that in this life's dream Men should abandon one true thing, That would abide with them.
We cannot bid our strength remain, Our cheeks continue round; We cannot say to an aged back, Stoop not towards the ground; We cannot bid our dim eyes see Things as bright as ever; Nor tell our friends, though friends from youth, That they'll forsake us never: But we can say, I never will, Friendship, fall off from thee; And, oh sound truth and old regard, Nothing shall part us three.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard

 We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen, be your apples.
When to bed the world are bobbing, Then's the time for orchard-robbing; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling, Were it not for stealing, stealing.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

A Thought of the Nile

 It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,--
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty of its throng, And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

An Angel in the House

 How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, 
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
News of dear friends, and children who have never 
Been dead indeed,--as we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths,--angels that are to be, Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;-- A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

Sudden Fine Weather

 Reader! what soul that laoves a verse can see 
The spring return, nor glow like you and me? 
Hear the quick birds, and see the landscape fill, 
Nor long to utter his melodious will? 

This more than ever leaps into the veins, 
When spring has been delay'd by winds and rains, 
And coming with a burst, comes like a show, 
Blue all above, and basking green below, 
And all the people culling the sweet prime: 
Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme, 
And the bee poet rushes into rhyme.
For lo! no sooner has the cold withdrawn, Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn; The merry sap has run up in the bowers, And bursts the windows of the buds in flowers; With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er, The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door, And apple-tree at noon with bees alive Burn with the golden chorus of the hive.
Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze, Is but one joy, express'd a thousand ways: And honey from the flowers and song from birds Are from the poet's pen his oeverflowing words.
Ah friends! methinks it were a pleasant sphere, If, like the trees, we blossom'd every year; If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes Return'd in cheeks, and raciness in eyes, And all around us, vital to the tips, The human orchard laugh'd with cherry lips! Lord! what a burst of merriment and play, Fair dames, were that! and what a first of May! So natural is the wish, that bards gone by Have left it, all, in some immortal sigh! And yet the winter months were not so well: Who would like changing, as the seasons fell? Fade every year, and stare, midst ghastly friends, With falling hairs, and stuck-out fingers' ends? Besides, this tale of youth that comes again Is no more true of apple-trees than men.
The Swedish sage, the Newton of the flow'rs, Who first found out those worlds of paramours, Tells us, that every blossom that we see Boasts in its walls a separate family; So that a tree is but a sort of stand That holds those afilial fairies in its hand; Just as Swift's giant might have held a bevy Of Lilliputian ladies, or a levee.
It is not her that blooms: it is his race, Who honour his old arms, and hide his rugged face.
Ye wits and bards, then, pray discern your duty, And learn the lastingness of human beauty.
Your finest fruit to some two months may reach: I've known a cheek at forth like a peach.
But see! the weather calls me.
Here's a bee Comes bounding in my room imperiously, And talking to himself, hastily burns About mine ear, and so in heat returns.
O little brethren of the fervid soul, Kissers of flowers, lords of the golden bowl, I follow to your fields and tusted brooks: Winter's the time to which the poet looks For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honied books.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

A Night-Rain in Summer

 Open the window, and let the air 
Freshly blow upon face and hair, 
And fill the room, as it fills the night, 
With the breath of the rain's sweet might.
Hark! the burthen, swift and prone! And how the odorous limes are blown! Stormy Love's abroad, and keeps Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.
Not a blink shall burn to-night In my chamber, of sordid light; Nought will I have, not a window-pane, 'Twixt me and the air and the great good rain, Which ever shall sing me sharp lullabies; And God's own darkness shall close mine eyes; And I will sleep, with all things blest, In the pure earth-shadow of natural rest.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |


 My body, eh? Friend Death, how now? 
Why all this tedious pomp of writ? 
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow 
For half a century bit by bit.
In faith thou knowest more to-day Than I do, where it can be found! This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, To which I am now chained and bound, Has not of kith or kin a trace To the good body once I bore; Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: Didst ever see that face before? Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; Thy only fault thy lagging gait, Mistaken pity in thy heart For timorous ones that bid thee wait.
Do quickly all thou hast to do, Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; I shall be free when thou art through; I grudge thee nought that thou must take! Stay! I have lied; I grudge thee one, Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,-- Two members which have faithful done My will and bidding in the past.
I grudge thee this right hand of mine; I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; They never gave me coward sign, Nor played me once the traitor's part.
I see now why in olden days Men in barbaric love or hate Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways, Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state: The symbol, sign and instrument Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, Of fires in which are poured and spent Their all of love, their all of life.
O feeble, mighty human hand! O fragile, dauntless human heart! The universe holds nothing planned With such sublime, transcendent art! Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine Poor little hand, so feeble now; Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, Its veins so pallid and so slow -- Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; I shall be free when thou art through.
Take all there is -- take hand and heart; There must be somewhere work to do.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

How Robin and His Outlaws Lived in The Woods

 Robin and his merry men
: Lived just like the birds;
They had almost as many tracks as thoughts,
: And whistles and songs as words.
Up they were with the earliest sign Of the sun's up-looking eye; But not an archer breakfasted Till he twinkled from the sky.
All the morning they were wont To fly their grey-goose quills At butts, or wands, or trees, or twigs, Till theirs was the skill of skills.
With swords too they played lustily, And at quarter-staff; Many a hit would have made some cry, Which only made them laugh.
The horn was then their dinner-bell; When like princes of the wood, Under the glimmering summer trees, Pure venison was their food.
Pure venison and a little wine, Except when the skies were rough; Or when they had a feasting day; For their blood was wine enough.
And story then, and joke, and song, And Harry's harp went round; And sometimes they'd get up and dance, For pleasure of the sound.
Tingle, tangle! said the harp, As they footed in and out: Good lord! it was a sight to see Their feathers float about;-- A pleasant sight, especially : If Margery was there, Or little Ciss, or laughing Bess, : Or Moll with the clumps of hair; Or any other merry lass : From the neighbouring villages, Who came with milk and eggs, or fruit, : A singing through the trees.
For all the country round about : Was fond of Robin Hood, With whom they got a share of more : Than the acorns in the wood; Nor ever would he suffer harm : To woman, above all; No plunder, were she ne'er so great, : No fright to great or small; No,—not a single kiss unliked, : Nor one look-saddening clip; Accurst be he, said Robin Hood, : Makes pale a woman's lip.
Only on the haughty rich, : And on their unjust store, He'd lay his fines of equity : For his merry men and the poor.
And special was his joy, no doubt : (Which made the dish to curse) To light upon a good fat friar, : And carve him of his purse.
A monk to him was a toad in the hole, : And an abbot a pig in grain, But a bishop was a baron of beef, : With cut and come again.
Never poor man came for help, And wnet away denied; Never woman for redress, And went away wet-eyed.
Says Robin to the poor who came : To ask of him relief, You do but get your goods again, : That were altered by the thief; There, ploughman, is a sheaf of your's : Turned to yellow gold; And, miller, there's your last year's rent, : 'Twill wrap thee from the cold: And you there, Wat of Lancashire, : Who such a way have come, Get upon your land-tax, man, : And ride it merrily home.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |


 Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and welth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

Jenny Kissed Me

 Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt |

May and the Poets

 There is May in books forever; 
May will part from Spenser never; 
May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 
May's in all the Italian books:-- 
She has old and modern nooks, 
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves, 
In happy places they call shelves, 
And will rise and dress your rooms 
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will, May's at home, and with me still; But come rather, thou, good weather, And find us in the fields together.