Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
Born Feburary 5, 1856, Douglas Sladen was a travel writer, author and editor of Who's Who between 1897-1899. He collected all the correspondence he had with prominent people of his time into 70 scrapbooks. Many of the letters are from well known literary and political figures. The collection is housed in the Old Town Hall, Richmond.
He studied at Trinity College, Oxford, and went to Australia (1879), where he became the first professor of history in the University of Sydney. Subsequently he traveled much and settled in London as a writer. more »
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Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen Poems
LOVE we the warmth and light of tropic lands, The strange bright fruit, the feathery fanspread leaves, The glowing mornings and the mellow eves, The strange shells scattered on the golden sands,
A Christmas Letter From Australia
’T IS Christmas, and the North wind blows; ’t was two years yesterday Since from the Lusitania’s bows I looked o’er Table Bay, A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main, Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.
To The Australian Eleven
You have bearded the lion in his den, You have singed the original cricket Upon his own hearth, and beaten his men
TOUCH not that maid: She is a flower, and changeth but to fade. Fragrant is she, and fair As any shape that haunts this lower air;
Sunset On The Cunimbla Valley, Blue Moun...
I SAT upon a windy mountain height, On a huge rock outstanding from the rest; The sun had sunk behind a neighboring crest, Leaving chill shade; but looking down, my sight
From The Drama Of “charles Ii”
COME and kiss me, mistress Beauty, I will give you all that ’s due t’ye. I will taste your rosebud lips
Under The Wattle
"Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?" Asked one -- they were but two -- Where wattles grow.
Comments about Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
LOVE we the warmth and light of tropic lands,
The strange bright fruit, the feathery fanspread leaves,
The glowing mornings and the mellow eves,
The strange shells scattered on the golden sands,
The curious handiwork of Eastern hands,
The little carts ambled by humpbacked beeves,
The narrow outrigged native boat which cleaves,
Unscathed, the surf outside the coral strands.
Love we the blaze of color, the rich red
Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright green
Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor dread
The fierceness of the noon. The sky ...