Eliza Cook was an English author, Chartist poet and writer born in London Road, Southwark
She was the daughter of a local tradesman. She attended the local Sunday Schools and was encouraged by the son of the music master to produce her first volume of poetry. From this she took confidence and in 1837 began to offer verse to the radical Weekly Dispatch, then edited by William Johnson Fox. She was a staple of its pages for the next ten years. She also offered material to The Literary Gazette, Metropolitan Magazine and New Monthly.
Her work for the Dispatch and New Monthly was later pirated by George Julian Harney, the Chartist, for ... more »
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Eliza Cook Poems
The Old Arm-chair
I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair ? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink Where every eye but his own would shrink; No music he hears but the billow’s noise, And shells and weeds are his only toys.
Song of the Worm
THE worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain In the field that is stored with its millions of slain ; The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong, With the vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and strong.
Don't Tell the World that You're Waiting...
THREE summers have gone since the first time we met, love, And still 'tis in vain that I ask thee to wed ; I hear no reply but a gentle " Not yet, love," With a smile of your lip, and a shake of your head.
The Quiet Eye
THE ORB I like is not the one That dazzles with its lightning gleam; That dares to look upon the sun, As though it challenged brighter beam.
I gazed on orbs of flashing black; I met the glow of hazel light; I marked the hue of laughing blue, That sparkled in the festive night.
Buttercups and Daisies
I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart; -
I Leave Thee for Awhile
I leave thee for awhile, my love, I leave thee with a sigh; The fountain spring within my soul is playing in mine eye;
Winter the Season For the Exercise of Ch...
We know 'tis good that old Winter should come, Roving awhile from his Lapland home; 'Tis fitting that we should hear the sound
TURPIN had his Black Bess, and she carried him well, As fame with her loud-breathing trumpet will tell; She knew not the lash, and she suffered no spur; A bold rider was all that was needed by her.
Be Kind When You Can
Be kind when you can, though the kindness be little, 'Tis small letters make up philosophers' scrolls; The crystal of Happiness, vivid and brittle, Can seldom be cut into very large bowls.
The Flag of the Free
Tis the streamer of England - it floats o'er the brave- 'Tis the fairest unfurled o'er the land or the wave; But though brightest in story and matchless in fight, 'Tis the heralds of Mercy as well as of Might.
Song of the Sailor Boy
Cheer up, cheer up, my mother dear! Ah! Why do you sit and weep? Do you think that he who guards me here, Forsakes me on the deep?
I've come to the cabin he danced his wild jigs in, As neat a mud palace as ever was seen;
Comments about Eliza Cook
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Old Arm-chair
I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair ?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
' Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? -- a mother sat there ;
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.
In Childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear ;
And gentle words that mother would give ;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me ...