Sydney Thompson Dobell

(1824-1874 / England)

Sydney Thompson Dobell Poems

1. Fragment Of A Sleep-Song 1/1/2004
2. Home In War-Time 1/1/2004
3. A Chanted Calendar 1/1/2004
4. On The Death Of Mrs. Browning 1/1/2004
5. Return! 1/1/2004
6. A Health To The Queen 4/12/2010
7. A Hero's Grave 4/12/2010
8. A Musing On A Victory 4/12/2010
9. A Shower In War-Time 4/12/2010
10. How’s My Boy? 1/1/2004
11. Laus Deo 1/1/2004
12. Afloat And Ashore 4/12/2010
13. Alone 4/12/2010
14. Childless 4/12/2010
15. Crazed 4/12/2010
16. Czar Nicholas 4/12/2010
17. Daft Jean 4/12/2010
18. Dead-Maid's-Pool 4/12/2010
19. Dedicatory 4/12/2010
20. Deprecating A Gift 4/12/2010
21. Desolate 4/12/2010
22. Epitaph I 4/12/2010
23. Epitaph Ii 4/12/2010
24. Esse Et Posse 4/12/2010
25. An Evening Dream 4/12/2010
26. At The Grave Of A Spanish Friend 4/12/2010
27. Austrian Alliance 4/12/2010
28. Ballad 4/12/2010
29. For Charity's Sake 4/12/2010
30. Fragment Of Ballad 4/12/2010
31. Good-Night In War-Time 4/12/2010
32. I: In A Great House By The Sea I Sat 4/12/2010
33. Ii: And As I Mused On All We Call Our Own 4/12/2010
34. In War-Time A Psalm Of The Heart 4/12/2010
35. In War-Time: A Prayer Of The Understanding 4/12/2010
36. In War-Time: An Aspiration Of The Spirit 4/12/2010
37. Isabel 4/12/2010
38. Jerusalem 4/12/2010
39. John Bohun Martin 4/12/2010
40. Lady Constance 4/12/2010
Best Poem of Sydney Thompson Dobell

Farewell

Can I see thee stand
On the looming land?
Dost thou wave with thy white hand
Farewell, farewell?
I could think that thou art near,
Thy sweet voice is in mine ear,
Farewell, farewell!
While I listen, all things seem
Singing in a singing dream,
Farewell, farewell!
Echoing in an echoing dream,
Farewell, farewell!


Yon boat upon the sea,
It floats 'twixt thee and me,
I see the boatman listless lie;
He cannot hear the cry
That in mine ears doth ring
Farewell, farewell!
Doth it pass him o'er and o'er,
Heard upon the shore ...

Read the full of Farewell

Sea Ballad - From

“HOW many?” said our good Captain.
“Twenty sail and more.”
We were homeward bound,
Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore.
Right athwart our tack,
The foe came thick and black,
Like Hell-birds and foul weather—you might count them by the score.

The Betsy Jane did slack

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