Read the book: «Heroes and romantics A Path in verse. Forgotten Poets of the 17th and 18th centuries»

© Rais Gu, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-6136-7

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

PREFACE

To the Reader

The eighteenth century was an age of movement – of ships that crossed unknown waters, of soldiers marching toward uncertain horizons, and of quiet households where letters were written at a small wooden desk by candlelight. It was a world forever balanced between discovery and hardship, between duty and longing. It was an age of both struggle and grace.

Most who lived then did not dream of publishing poems. They wrote for themselves, for loved ones far away, for solace after loss, or for the simple human need to turn emotion into words. Their verses appeared in personal journals, in private correspondence, in the margins of worn books. These small, intimate creations were never meant for fame, yet they captured the pulse of the people who lived through that era – its fears, its devotion, its unpolished beauty.

This book is an attempt to revive their spirit. The poems you will read are not reproductions of lost works, nor imitations meant to trick the modern eye. They are newly written pieces, crafted deliberately in the style, tone, and sensibility of ordinary poets of the 18th century, but adapted for the contemporary reader to bridge the gap of time and language.

However, as a testament to our respect for the original authors and for you, the reader, to appreciate the authentic voice of the past, we have included the original poems alongside our adaptations. This allows a rare glimpse into the raw material of history – to read the words as they were first set down and to witness the beauty and complexity that inspired this collection.

Why does this matter? Because we are the descendants of their courage and their tenderness. Because the past becomes silent only when we stop listening. And because in their struggles, hopes, and small triumphs, we still find reflections of ourselves.

– Compiler

PART I – THE UNKNOWN POETS

Seven Adapted Poems

1. “The Road Beyond the Hill”

I stood upon the rising land,

Where morning winds began to stir,

And saw the world so wide, unplanned,

Unfold its quiet character.

The road beyond the distant rise

Was pale beneath the waking sun,

A ribbon drawn through changing skies—

A path for all, a path for one.

I felt the call of far-off days,

Of fields untrod, of hope untamed;

And though the world held thousand ways,

I chose the one I could not name.

So let the hill stand tall and still—

My heart moves on, as hearts must will.

2. “To the Letters Never Sent”

I kept them folded in a drawer,

Those words I never dared to send;

For what we fear, we guard the more,

And what we guard, we never mend.

Yet ink endures though hopes may fade,

And paper waits without complaint;

It holds the truths we never made,

And bears the weight of self-restraint.

Oh silent pages, sealed with dust,

Forgive the heart that feared its own;

For love withheld becomes mistrust,

And longing kept grows into stone.

Still, may you rest in quiet grace—

The echoes of a hidden place.

3. “Song of the Wayfarer”

My boots are worn, my coat is thin,

My road is rough, but still I go;

For every loss I hold within

Becomes a lantern in the snow.

The night is deep, the stars are few,

The wind grows sharp along the plain;

But hearts that break, and break anew,

Find strength in every tender pain.

So let the world be harsh and wide—

A wanderer learns to abide.

4. “The Candle in the Window”

A little flame behind the glass,

A trembling hope against the cold,

It waits for those who long to pass

From weary roads to hearths of old.

It flickers when the storm winds rise,

It sways when doubt is drawing near;

Yet still it burns before our eyes—

A quiet sign that home is here.

Through tempests strong and shadows wide,

One gentle light will still abide.

5. “A Soldier’s Quiet Prayer”

Lord, grant my heart the strength to bear

The weight of days I cannot know;

Grant me the will to face despair,

And courage when the trumpets blow.

Let honor guide my steadfast hand,

Let mercy temper all I do;

And if I fall in unknown land,

Let love remember I was true.

6. “The Old Sailor’s Tale” (longer poem)

I have wandered through storms where the sea rose high,

Where the timbers groaned and the winds would cry,

Where the gulls were lost in a mist so pale,

And the stars themselves seemed frail.

I have sailed where the distant islands gleam,

Like ghosts that drift through a morning dream;

I have seen the sun on the silver foam,

And found in no port my home.

Yet still I roam on the restless tide,

For the sea keeps all that the land denied;

And though I age as the seasons pass,

My heart is young as the looking-glass—

For every wave, with its voice so free,

Whispers, “Come back to me.”

7. “The Orchard Beyond the Gate” (longer poem)

Beyond the gate, the orchard lies

Where branches bend beneath the skies;

Where blossoms fall like softened snow,

And time moves gentle, calm, and slow.

There childhood’s laughter lingers still

Like echoes wrapped around the hill;

There every dream we meant to chase

Still waits in some forgotten place.

Though seasons change and years depart,

The orchard keeps a faithful heart;

And those who wander back once more

Will find the peace they knew before.

PART I – ORIGINAL POEMS (as if written in the 18th century)

(These are older-voiced, more archaic versions of the same themes.)

1. “Upon the Eastern Rise”

Upon the hill where dawn uncurtains day,

I stood amidst the breath of waking air,

And saw the road stretch pale and far away,

A wandering thread through realms both wild and fair.

The fields lay hushed beneath the tender skies,

The winds moved soft as if they feared to roam;

Yet in my breast did restless yearnings rise—

For hearts oft stray though bodies cling to home.

Thus forth I went, though fate be yet unknown;

The hill behind me watched in solemn stone.

2. “Lines Kept Close Within My Desk”

Within my drawer, in modest silence laid,

Lie letters wrought in melancholy hue;

The hand that wrote them faltered, half afraid

To speak the truths that trembling spirits knew.

Oh timid heart, that dared not trust its plea,

But sealed its hopes within a paper tomb—

How many joys hath caution robbed from me,

How many blossoms stolen from their bloom.

Yet still those pages bear my shameful art,

A testament to an uncertain heart.