BLTC Press Titles


available for Kindle at Amazon.com


Some Experiences of an Irish R. M.

Edith Somerville and Martin Ross


Knowledge of Higher Worlds and its Attainment

Rudolf Steiner


The Haunted Bookshop

Christopher Morely


Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

Lewis Carroll


Life of William Blake, "Pictor ignotus".

by Alexander Gilchrist

Excerpt:

Your music floats,
I'll pore upon the stream
Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.

I'll drink of the clear stream,
And hear the linnet's song;

And there I'll lie and dream
The day along:

And, when night comes, I'll go

To places fit for woe;

Walking along the darkened valley

With silent Melancholy.

TO THE MUSES.

Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,

The chambers of the sun that now
From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,

Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove
Beneath the bosom of the sea,

Wandering in many a coral grove;
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoy'd in you!

The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Thou fair-hair'd angel of the Evening,

Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light

Thy brilliant torch of love; thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves; and whilst thou drawest round

The curtains of the sky, scatter thy dew

On every flower that closes its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,

And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,

And then the lion glares through the dun forest.

The fleeces of our flocks are covered with

Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.

TO SPRESTG.

O Thou, with dewy locks, who lookest down
Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring

The hills do tell each other, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilion: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy softest kisses on her bosom, and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.

TO SUMMER.

O Thou who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O summer!
Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Bode o'er the deep of heaven. Beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys; on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw all
Thy draperies off, and rush into the stream!
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire;
Our youths are bolder than the southern swains;
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance;
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaveD,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

BLIND-MAN'S BUFF.

When silver snow decks Susan's clothes,
And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose,
The chimney-nook is all my care,
With hearth so red and walls so fair;
'Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher,
'The oaken log lay on the fire.'
The well-washed stools, a circling row,
With lad and lass, how fair the show!
The merry can of nut-brown ale,
The laughing jest, the love-sick tale:
'Till, tired of chat, the game begins,
The lasses prick the lads with pins;
Roger from Dolly twitched the stool,
She falling, kissed the ground, poor fool!
She blushed so red, with side-long glance
At hob-nail Dick who grieved the chance.
But now for Blind-man's Buff they call;
Of each incumbrance clear the hall!


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