The Trials of Betsy Bell is a little-known song that once appeared in Southern Lyrics, a book published in 1907. The song is noted as being written in July of 1906, but there is no information on the writer. ‘Tis scarcely yet one hundred years Since came and went the things I tell, Since lived and loved, in direful fears, The blue-eyed beauty, Betsy Bell.
Philip Freneau (1752-1832), is a widely renowned American poet and editor. He is perhaps best known for House of Night, which contains gothic, dark elements said to’ve inspired much of Edgar Allan Poe’s work. [Note:
Ellen M.H. Cortissoz (1833–1933) is a writer of which little information is available.
Vespers and Vampires – Poems from my personal collection of original and vintage verse created by writers we should’ve heard about (or heard much more of) long ago. “Owen Meredith” was a pseudonym used by Lord Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton (1831-1891) an English statesman and poet. While nearly forgotten today, the poetry of Owen Meredith was popular during his time.
Alfred Noyes (1880-1958) was an English poet and “The Highwayman,” is perhaps his best known work. 1. The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
This archaic poet is little known today, but his words have inspired artists for centuries. Here is one of my favorite vampire poems: I burn, when in excess of wine He soils those snowy arms of thine Or on thy lips the fierce-fond boy Marks with his teeth the furious joy But fav’ring Venus watchful o’re thy joy Shall lay thee secret near th’ impassioned boy His panting bosom shall be prest to thine And his dear lips, thy breathless lips shall join With active tongue he’ll dart the humid kiss And on thy neck indent his eager bliss…
She spoke to the ghost last night He said he’d come again He thinks it’s suspicious That she can’t say where she’s been He wishes she would tell him What lies beyond the path He barely contains the sunshine Hidden within his wrath
She dreamed good dreams of burdock She rested in the moor She danced across the arbor And broke the latch on the door She threw a stick of fire Into the thatched hut And when the fire died She didn’t give up She threw the stones in Eden And slapped the only poor And when she came even She forgot to lock the door Don’t open the window Don’t clear your mind You know what will happen When you’re left behind Leave me alone I’m so tired of you But you are the candle’s flame and I’m a moth