Famous Long Western Poems

Famous Long Western Poems. Long Western Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Western long poems

See also: Long Member Poems

 I heard an angel speak last night,
And he said 'Write!
Write a Nation's curse for me,
And send it over the Western Sea.'

I faltered, taking up the word:
'Not so, my lord!
If curses must be, choose another
To send thy curse against my brother.

'For I am bound by gratitude,
By love and blood,
To brothers of mine across the sea,
Who stretch out kindly hands to me.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write
My curse to-night.
From the summits of love a curse is driven,
As lightning is from the tops of heaven.'

'Not so,' I answered. 'Evermore
My heart is sore
For my own land's sins: for little feet
Of children bleeding along the street:

'For parked-up honors that gainsay
The right of way:
For almsgiving through a door that is
Not open enough for two friends to kiss:

'For love of freedom which abates
Beyond the Straits:
For patriot virtue starved to vice on
Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion:

'For an oligarchic parliament,
And bribes well-meant.
What curse to another land assign,
When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write
My curse to-night.
Because thou hast strength to see and hate
A foul thing done within thy gate.'

'Not so,' I answered once again.
'To curse, choose men.
For I, a woman, have only known
How the heart melts and the tears run down.'

'Therefore,' the voice...
Read the rest of this poem...

 We've drunk to the Queen -- God bless her! --
 We've drunk to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother,
 (But he does not understand);
We've drunk to the wide creation,
 And the Cross swings low for the mom,
Last toast, and of Obligation,
 A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them,
 But not their hearts that roam!
We learned from our wistful mothers
 To call old England "home";
We read of the English skylark,
 Of the spring in the English lanes,
But we screamed with the painted lories
 As we rode on the dusty plains!

They passed with their old-world legends --
 Their tales of wrong and dearth --
Our fathers held by purchase,
 But we by the right of birth;
Our heart's where they rocked our cradle,
 Our love where we spent our toil,
And our faith and our hope and our honour
 We pledge to our native soil!

I charge you charge your glasses --
 I charge you drink with me
To the men of the Four New Nations,
 And the Islands of the Sea --
To the last least lump of coral
 That none may stand outside,
And our own good pride shall teach us
 To praise our comrade's pride,

To the hush of the breathless...
Read the rest of this poem...

I was a little boy, at home with strangers.   
I liked my playmates, and knew well,   
Whence all their parents came; 
From England, Scotland, royal France   
From Germany and oft by chance 
The humble Emerald Isle. 

But my brown skin and close-curled hair 
Was alien, and how it grew, none knew; 
Few tried to say, some dropped a wonderful word or stray; 
Some laughed and stared. 

And then it came: I dreamed.   
I placed together all I knew 
All hints and slurs together drew.   
I dreamed. 

I made one picture of what nothing seemed   
I shuddered in dumb terror 
In silence screamed, 
For now it seemed this I had dreamed; 

How up from Hell, a land had leaped 
A wretched land, all scorched and seamed   
Covered with ashes, chained with pain   
Streaming with blood, in horror lain   
Its very air a shriek of death 
And agony of hurt. 

Anon I woke, but in one corner of my soul   
I stayed asleep. 
Forget I could not, 
But never would I remember   
That hell-hoist ghost   
Of slavery and...
Read the rest of this poem...

 The squatter saw his pastures wide 
Decrease, as one by one 
The farmers moving to the west 
Selected on his run; 
Selectors took the water up 
And all the black soil round; 
The best grass-land the squatter had 
Was spoilt by Ross's Ground. 

Now many schemes to shift old Ross 
Had racked the squatter's brains, 
But Sandy had the stubborn blood 
Of Scotland in his veins; 
He held the land and fenced it in, 
He cleared and ploughed the soil, 
And year by year a richer crop 
Repaid him for his toil. 

Between the homes for many years 
The devil left his tracks: 
The squatter pounded Ross's stock, 
And Sandy pounded Black's. 
A well upon the lower run 
Was filled with earth and logs, 
And Black laid baits about the farm 
To poison Ross's dogs. 

It was, indeed, a deadly feud 
Of class and creed and race; 
But, yet, there was a Romeo 
And a Juliet in the case; 
And more than once across the flats, 
Beneath the Southern Cross, 
Young Robert Black was seen to ride 
With pretty Jenny Ross. 

One Christmas time, when months of drought 
Had parched the western creeks, 
The bush-fires started in the north...
Read the rest of this poem...

 White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier 
As we glide to the grand old sea -- 
But the song of my heart is for none to hear 
If one of them waves for me. 
A roving, roaming life is mine, 
Ever by field or flood -- 
For not far back in my father's line 
Was a dash of the Gipsy blood. 

Flax and tussock and fern, 
Gum and mulga and sand, 
Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn 
Ever away from land; 
Strange wild cities in ancient state, 
Range and river and tree, 
Snow and ice. But my star of fate 
Is ever across the sea. 

A god-like ride on a thundering sea, 
When all but the stars are blind -- 
A desperate race from Eternity 
With a gale-and-a-half behind. 
A jovial spree in the cabin at night, 
A song on the rolling deck, 
A lark ashore with the ships in sight, 
Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck. 

A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, 
When life is a waking dream, 
And care and trouble so far away 
That out of your life they seem. 
A roving spirit in sympathy, 
Who...
Read the rest of this poem...

 SOFT is the balmy breath of May, 
When from the op'ning lids of day 
Meek twilight steals; and from its wings 
Translucent pearls of ether flings. 
MILD is the chaste Moon's languid eye, 
When gliding down the dappled sky 
She feebly lifts her spangled bow, 
Around her glitt'ring darts to throw.­ 
SWEET are the aromatic bowers, 
When Night sends forth refreshing showers 
O'er every thirsty fainting bud, 
That drinks with joy the grateful flood. 
Yet, can the deeply wounded Mind, 
From these, no lenient balsam find.­ 

What can the force of anguish quell, 
Where sullen Sorrow loves to dwell, 
Where round the bosom's burning throne, 
HOPELESS, the mingling PASSIONS groan? 
While thro' each guiv'ring, scorching vein, 
Rolls a revolving tide of pain; 
That struggling with the Storms of FATE, 
Provokes her darkest, direst, HATE. 
O, BARD ADMIR'D ! if ought could move 
The soul of Apathy to love; 
If, o'er my aching, bleeding breast, 
Ought could diffuse the balm of rest, 
The pow'r is thine ­for oh ! thy lays 
Warm'd by thy Mind's transcendent blaze, 
Dart thro' my frame with force divine, 
While all my rending woes combine, 
And thronging round thy glorious LYRE, 
In momentary bliss EXPIRE....
Read the rest of this poem...

 I.

I said---Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,
Since this was written and needs must be---
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave,---I claim
---Only a memory of the same,
---And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.

II.

My mistress bent that brow of hers;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me, a breathing-while or two,
With life or death in the balance: right!
The blood replenished me again;
My last thought was at least not vain:
I and my mistress, side by side
Shall be together, breathe and ride,
So, one day more am I deified.
Who knows but the world may end tonight?

III.

Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions---sun's
And moon's and evening-star's at once---
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near,
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!---
Thus leant she and lingered---joy and fear!
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

IV.

Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped...
Read the rest of this poem...

 RUM tiddy um,
 tiddy um,
 tiddy um tum tum.
My knees are loose-like, my feet want to sling their selves.
I feel like tickling you under the chin—honey—and a-asking: Why Does a Chicken Cross the Road?
When the hens are a-laying eggs, and the roosters pluck-pluck-put-akut and you—honey—put new potatoes and gravy on the table, and there ain’t too much rain or too little:
 Say, why do I feel so gabby?
 Why do I want to holler all over the place?. . .
Do you remember I held empty hands to you
 and I said all is yours
 the handfuls of nothing?. . .
I ask you for white blossoms.
I bring a concertina after sunset under the apple trees.
I bring out “The Spanish Cavalier” and “In the Gloaming, O My Darling.”

The orchard here is near and home-like.
The oats in the valley run a mile.
Between are the green and marching potato vines.
The lightning bugs go criss-cross carrying a zigzag of fire: the potato bugs are asleep under their stiff and yellow-striped wings: here romance stutters to the western stars, “Excuse … me…”. . .
Old foundations of rotten wood.
An old barn done-for and out of the wormholes ten-legged roaches shook up and scared by sunlight.
So a...
Read the rest of this poem...

 Where the rough Caigra rolls the surgy wave, 
Urging his thunders thro' the echoing cave; 
Where the sharp rocks, in distant horror seen, 
Drive the white currents thro' the spreading green; 
Where the loud tiger, pawing in his rage, 
Bids the black archers of the wilds engage; 
Stretch'd on the sand, two panting warriors lay, 
In all the burning torments of the day; 
Their bloody jav'lins reeked one living steam, 
Their bows were broken at the roaring stream; 
Heccar the Chief of Jarra's fruitful hill, 
Where the dark vapours nightly dews distil, 
Saw Gaira the companion of his soul, 
Extended where loud Caigra's billows roll; 
Gaira, the king of warring archers found, 
Where daily lightnings plough the sandy ground, 
Where brooding tempests bowl along the sky, 
Where rising deserts whirl'd in circles fly. 

Heccar. 
Gaira, 'tis useless to attempt the chace, 
Swifter than hunted wolves they urge the race; 
Their lessening forms elude the straining eye, 
Upon the plumage of macaws they fly. 
Let us return, and strip the reeking slain 
Leaving the bodies on the burning plain. 

Gaira. 
Heccar, my vengeance still exclaims for blood, 
'Twould drink a wider stream than Caigra's flood. 
This jav'lin, oft in nobler...
Read the rest of this poem...

 WHERE on the bosom of the foamy RHINE,
In curling waves the rapid waters shine;
Where tow'ring cliffs in awful grandeur rise,
And midst the blue expanse embrace the skies;
The wond'ring eye beholds yon craggy height,
Ting'd with the glow of Evening's fading light:
Where the fierce cataract swelling o'er its bound,
Bursts from its source, and dares the depth profound.
On ev'ry side the headlong currents flow,
Scatt'ring their foam like silv'ry sands below:
From hill to hill responsive echoes sound,
Loud torrents roar, and dashing waves rebound:
Th' opposing rock, the azure stream divides
The white froth tumbling down its sparry sides;
From fall to fall the glitt'ring channels flow,
'Till lost, they mingle in the Lake below.
Tremendous spot ! amid thy views sublime,
The mental sight ethereal realms may climb,
With wonder rapt the mighty work explore,
Confess TH' ETERNAL'S pow'r ! and pensively adore! 

ALL VARYING NATURE! oft the outstretch'd eye 
Marks o'er the WELKIN's brow the meteor fly: 
Marks, where the COMET with impetuous force, 
O'er Heaven's wide concave, skims its fiery course: 
While on the ALPINE steep thin vapours rise, 
Float on the blast­or freeze amidst the skies: 
Or half congeal'd in flaky fragments glide 
Along the gelid mountain's breezy side; 
Or mingling with the waste of yielding snow, 
From...
Read the rest of this poem...

 Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West
The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best;
Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone,
So he hired an "acting manager," a gruff old man named Krone--
A stern, commanding man with piercing eyes and flowing beard,
And his voice assumed a thunderous tone when Jack and I appeared;
He said that Julius Caesar had been billed a week or so,
And would have to have some armies by the time he reached St. Jo!

O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight,
When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night!
O happy days, when sounded in the public's rapturous ears
The creak of pasteboard armor and the clash of wooden spears!
O happy times for Jack and me and that one other supe
That then and there did constitute the noblest Roman's troop!
With togas, battle axes, shields, we made a dazzling show,
When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!

We wheeled and filed and double-quicked wherever Brutus led,
The folks applauding what we did as much as what he said;
'T was work, indeed; yet Jack and I were willing to allow
'T was easier following Brutus than following father's plough;
And...
Read the rest of this poem...

 1
 COME, my tan-faced children, 
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; 
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes? Pioneers! O pioneers! 

2
 For we cannot tarry here, 
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers! 

3
 O you youths, western youths, 
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship, 
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost, Pioneers! O
 pioneers! 

4
 Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the seas? 
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson, Pioneers! O pioneers! 

5
 All the past we leave behind; 
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world, 
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O pioneers!

6
 We detachments steady throwing, 
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep, 
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways, Pioneers! O pioneers!


7
 We primeval forests felling, 
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines within;
We the surface...
Read the rest of this poem...

 'TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth I went
By the way of the Western Wall, so drear
On that winter night, and sought a gate--
The home, by Fate,
Of one I had long held dear.

And there, as I paused by her tenement,
And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar,
I thought of the man who had left her lone--
Him who made her his own
When I loved her, long before.

The rooms within had the piteous shine
The home-things wear which the housewife miss;
From the stairway floated the rise and fall
Of an infant's call,
Whose birth had brought her to this.

Her life was the price she would pay for that whine--
For a child by the man she did not love.
"But let that rest forever," I said,
And bent my tread
To the chamber up above.

She took my hand in her thin white own,
And smiled her thanks--though nigh too weak--
And made them a sign to leave us there;
Then faltered, ere
She could bring herself to speak.

"'Twas to see you before I go--he'll condone
Such a natural thing now my time's not much--
When Death is so near it hustles hence
All passioned sense
Between woman and man as such!

"My husband is absent. As heretofore
The City detains him. But, in truth,
He has not been...
Read the rest of this poem...

 By the side of the brook, where the willow is waving
Why sits the wan Youth, in his wedding-suit gay!
Now sighing so deeply, now frantickly raving
Beneath the pale light of the moon's sickly ray.
Now he starts, all aghast, and with horror's wild gesture,
Cries, "AGNES is coming, I know her white vesture!
"See! see! how she beckons me on to the willow,
"Where, on the cold turf, she has made our rude pillow.

"Sweet girl ! yes I know thee; thy cheek's living roses
"Are chang'd and grown pale, with the touch of despair:
"And thy bosom no longer the lily discloses--
"For thorns, my poor AGNES, are now planted there!
"Thy blue, starry Eyes! are all dimm'd by dark sorrow;
"No more from thy lip, can the flow'r fragrance borrow;
"For cold does it seem, like the pale light of morning,
"And thou smil'st, as in sadness, thy fond lover, scorning!

"From the red scene of slaughter thy Edmund returning,
"Has dress'd himself gayly, with May-blooming flow'rs;
"His bosom, dear AGNES! still faithfully burning,
"While, madly impatient, his eyes beam in show'rs!
"O ! many a time have I thought of thy beauty--
"When cannons, loud roaring, taught Valour its duty;
"And many a time, have I sigh'd to behold thee--
"When the sulphur of War, in its...
Read the rest of this poem...

 I love all sights of earth and skies, 
From flowers that glow to stars that shine; 
The comet and the penny show, 
All curious things, above, below, 
Hold each in turn my wandering eyes: 
I claim the Christian Pagan's line, 
Humani nihil, -- even so, -- 
And is not human life divine? 
When soft the western breezes blow, 
And strolling youths meet sauntering maids, 
I love to watch the stirring trades 
Beneath the Vallombrosa shades 
Our much-enduring elms bestow; 
The vender and his rhetoric's flow, 
That lambent stream of liquid lies; 
The bait he dangles from his line, 
The gudgeon and his gold-washed prize. 
I halt before the blazoned sign 
That bids me linger to admire 
The drama time can never tire, 
The little hero of the hunch, 
With iron arm and soul of fire, 
And will that works his fierce desire, -- 
Untamed, unscared, unconquered Punch! 
My ear a pleasing torture finds 
In tones the withered sibyl grinds, -- 
The dame sans merci's broken strain, 
Whom I erewhile, perchance, have known, 
When Orleans filled the Bourbon throne, 
A siren singing by the Seine. 

But most I love the tube that spies 
The orbs celestial in their march; 
That...
Read the rest of this poem...