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A Victorian Scrapbook

A Scrapbook of Newspaper Articles Compiled by George Burgess (1829-1905)

Victorian Poetry

A Compilation of short articles

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Transcripts from original newspaper articles: -

Page Contents

A Remark, The Persian Poet



Friendship - W. A. Hartl


I Hear A Voice You Cannot Hear

Kind Words - Marion

Lightly Spoken

The Fond Illusions I Have Cherished - J. T. Watson

The Man Who Would Like To Go To Heaven Alone

The Moon Is Up In Splendour

We Look To You, Oh Mothers Of Our Land

Young And Beautiful


When shadows darken o'er the face we love,
And wintry sorrow lays its impress there,
How calmly, gently, Bible words remove
All trace of anguish from that brow so fair!

THE man who would like to go to heaven alone, will never get there either alone or in company. Naomi, the daughter of Enoch, was five hundred years old when she married. Courage, ladies! –

“There never was a goose so gray,
But some day, soon or late,
An honest gander came that way,
And took her for his mate.”

A remark, the Persian poet

The fond illusions I have cherished,
Anticipations once so fair,
Calmly I hear they all have perished,
But ‘tis the calmness of despair.

What next? I know not, do not care,
Come pain, or pleasure, weal, or woe,
There’s nothing which I cannot bear,
Since I have borne this withering blow.


FRIENDSHIP waits on poverty
As well as upon wealth,
Waits kindly upon sickness
As well as upon health;
Waits sweetly upon sorrow,
As well as upon joy.
True friendship is a virtue
No trouble can destroy.


FRIENDSHIP. – The water that flows from a spring does not congeal in winter. And those sentiments of friendship which flow from an affectionate heart cannot be frozen by adversity.

HOPE. – There is a fire residing in the human breast that burns brightly and cheerfully, and it is Hope. Around it our feelings gather themselves lest they should become cold and frozen, and receive warmth and strength; and here, too, our courage and ambition comes, and kindles into activity. Hope is the anchor of life. Deprived of its presence, like the ship upon the briny deep without a helmsman, and driven hither and thither by storm and tempest, we should become stranded upon the shores of time. Hope is sweet and heaven-born. It is the dim light by which we endeavour to catch faint glimpse of the dread future.

“I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.”


Kind words! What are ye? Pearly drops of dew,
Sparkling beams of comfort, soothing sad adieu;
Blossoms clad in beauty, gladdening human life,
Sounds of heavenly music, drowning angry strife.

Kind words are angels, being bright and pure,
Teaching man with patience life’s sorrows to endure,
Fountains all refreshing – streams of heavenly love,
Watering souls with gladness, raising hearts above.



Many links of friendship broken
By the words so lightly spoken;
Words so light, yet causing pain,
Ne’er could be recall’d again –
Many hearts now doom’d to sorrow
Which had hoped a bright to-morrow.

Words unmeaning tho’ they seem
To the crowd who idly dream,
Yet may wound some gentle heart
Deeper than a poison’d dart –
Dooming many hearts to sorrow
Which had hoped a bright to-morrow.


"Death levels all things in his march,
Nought can resist his mighty strength.

We look to you, oh mothers of our land!
To aid us in the work we strive to do;
Not carelessly or idly must you stand,
But the young mind with sacred truths imbue.
All feel your influence! through the future years
Work earnestly and rightly. Do your best!
So on your graves shall fall those holy tears
Which, more than words, our reverence attest.

The moon is up in splendour,
And golden stars attend her;
The heavens are calm and bright.
Trees cast a deepening shadow,
And slowly off the meadow
A mist is rising silver-white.

Night’s curtains now are closing
Round half a world reposing,
In calm and holy trust.
All seems one vast still chamber,
Where weary hearts remember
No more the sorrow of the dust.

“Young” and “beautiful” are
Sacred to the heart’s best history
But they are, like songs of birds,
Both a rapture and a mystery:
From their presence we are gleaming
Scraps of wisdom as we go,
But their most ethereal meaning
Nothing less than angels know.