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Riley N

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American author, essayist, biographer, historian, and diplomat, Washington Irving was born in New York City in 1783. He is best known for his short stories, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle, both published in his book, The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent, as seven paper-bound installments between June 23, 1819 and September 13, 1820.

Irving made his literary debut in 1802, publishing a collection of observational letters under the pseudonym Geoffrey Crayon. He moved to England in 1815 and gained international acclaim with the success of The Sketchbook fo Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.

Irving was among the first American writers to earn fame in Europe, along with James Fenimore Cooper. Authors Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allen Poe and Herman Melville were among the distinguished authors who benefited from Irving's encouragement.

Irving continued to write regularly, returned from abroad and traveled deep into Indian territory, then accepted a post in Spain. He published biographies about writer and poet Oliver Goldsmith (1849) and a the Islamist prophet Muhammad (1850). With his popularity continuing to soar, Irving kept up with correspondence and socialized well into his 70s.

Irving died of a heart attack in 1859, eight months after completing his significant biographical series on George Washington. Appropriately enough, Irving was buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

Irving's work is featured in our collection of Halloween Stories and Gothic Literature Study Guide

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American author, essayist, biographer, historian, and diplomat, Washington Irving was born in New York City in 1783. He is best known for his short stories, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle , both published in his book, The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent, as seven paper-bound installments between June 23, 1819 and September 13, 1820.

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Kylie Stubbs

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Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade

Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes

Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

Which better far were mute.

For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!

And overspread with phantom light,

(With swimming phantom light o'erspread

But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming-on of rain and squally blast.

And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,

Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear-

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,

To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene,

Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green:

And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye!

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,

That give away their motion to the stars;

Those stars, that glide behind them or between,

Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:

Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavour,

Though I should gaze for ever

On that green light that lingers in the west:

I may not hope from outward forms to win

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

O Lady! we receive but what we give,

And in our life alone does Nature live:

Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!

And would we aught behold, of higher worth,

Than that inanimate cold world allowed

To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me

What this strong music in the soul may be!

What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,

This beautiful and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,

Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,

Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,

Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,

Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower

A new Earth and new Heaven,

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud-

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice,

All colours a suffusion from that light.

There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress,

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:

For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,

And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.

But now afflictions bow me down to earth:

Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of Imagination.

For not to think of what I needs must feel,

But to be still and patient, all I can;

And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural man-

This was my sole resource, my only plan:

Till that which suits a part infects the whole,

And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream

Of agony by torture lengthened out

That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,

Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,

Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,

Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,

The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!

Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!

What tell'st thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,

With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds-

At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,

With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over-

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!

And tempered with delight,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,-

Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!

With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;

To her may all things live, from pole to pole,

Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above,

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,

Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

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Dejection: An Ode by Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Poetry Foundation

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Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, Which better far were mute.

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Adrianna Pittman

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Poetry by Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven, Annabel Lee, more

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Popular poems by Edgar Allan Poe, including The Raven, Annabel Lee, A Dream Within A Dream, The Bells, Alone, Dream-Land, The Haunted Palace, and more

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Samara Brunet

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This collection includes ten selected poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from Lit2Go. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the five members of the group known as the Fireside Poets. Born in Maine, Longfellow lived for most of his life in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in a house once occupied during the American Revolution by General George Washington and his staff. For more of Longfellow's poetry, please visit the Lit2Go collection at the University of South Florida on iTunes U.

This collection includes ten selected poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from Lit2Go. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the five members of the group known as the Fireside Poets. Born in Maine, Longfellow lived for most of his life in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in a house once occupied during the American Revolution by General George Washington and his staff. For more of Longfellow's poetry, please visit the Lit2Go collection at the University of South Florida on iTunes U.

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henry wadsworth longfellow: selected poems

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‎Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Selected Poems on Apple Podcasts

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‎This collection includes ten selected poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from Lit2Go. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the five members of the group known as the Fireside Poets. Born in Maine, Longfellow lived for most of his life in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in a house once occupied during th...