James Brunton Stephens
James Brunton Stephens was a Scottish-born Australian poet, author of Convict Once.
Stephens was born at Borrowstounness, on the Firth of Forth, Scotland; the son of John Stephens, the parish schoolmaster, and his wife Jane, née Brunton. J. B. Stephens was educated at his father's school, then at a free boarding school and at the University of Edinburgh from 1849 to 1854 without obtaining a degree. For three years he was a travelling tutor on the continent, and from 1859 became a school teacher in Scotland. While teaching at Greenock Academy in Greenock, Stephens wrote some minor verse and two short novels ('Rutson Morley' and 'Virtue Le Moyne') which were ... more »
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James Brunton Stephens Poems
Hark how the tremulous night-wind is passing in joy-laden sighs; Soft through my window it comes, like the fanning of pinions angelic, Whispering to cease from myself, and look out on the infinite skies.
The night was creeping on the ground; She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and then She covered it, and sole again
A Son of the Soil
Said the Preacher “All is Vanity!”—appending as a reason That the things we find our pleasure in are bound to pass and pall;
De mortuis nil ni- Si bonum: R.I.P.:— No more upbraid him:— Nay, rather plead his cause
Maker of earth and sea, What shall we render Thee? All things are Thine! Ours but from day to day
King Billy's Skull.
THE scene is the Southern Hemisphere; The time — oh, any time of the year Will do as well as another; say June,
A Brisbane Reverie
As I sit beside my little study window, looking down From the heights of contemplation (attic front) upon the town
1 IT was the time when geese despond, And turkeys make their wills; The time when Christians, to a man,
Macaulay's New Zealander
It little profits that, an idle man, On this worn arch, in sight of wasted halls, I mope, a solitary pelican,
A Coin of Trajan in Australia
Through what strange winding ways of circumstance, Through what conspiracies of time and chance, By what long chain of hands, from his who pressed
Knowest thou now, O Love! Oh pure from the death of thy summer of sweetness! Seest thou now, O new-born Delight of the Ransomed and Free!
I. Biggs was missing: Biggs had vanished; all the town was in a ferment; For if ever man was looked to for an edifying end, With due mortuary outfit, and a popular interment,
The Dark Companion
There is an orb that mocked the lore of sages Long time with mystery of strange unrest; The steadfast law that rounds the starry ages Gave doubtful token of supreme behest.
For My Sake
“Inasmuch as ye gave ear unto the sighing Of the least of these the children of my care,— Of your love from death redeemed them, or in dying Stood between them and the shadow of despair;—
Comments about James Brunton Stephens
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Hark how the tremulous night-wind is passing in joy-laden sighs;
Soft through my window it comes, like the fanning of pinions angelic,
Whispering to cease from myself, and look out on the infinite skies.
Out on the orb-studded night, and the crescent effulgence of Dian;
Out on the far-gleaming star-dust that marks where the angels have trod;
Out on the gem-pointed Cross, and the glittering pomp of Orion,
Flaming in measureless azure, the coronal jewels of God;
Luminous streams of delight in the silent ...