Inscription on a Grotto, the Work of Nine Ladies.
Here, shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul and shining as her frame;
Beauty which nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But Fate disposed them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts what would charm a Court.
poem by Alexander Pope
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On A Candle
Of all inhabitants on earth,
To man alone I owe my birth,
And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee,
Are all my parents more than he:
I, a virtue, strange and rare,
Make the fairest look more fair,
And myself, which yet is rarer,
Growing old, grow still the fairer.
Like sots, alone I'm dull enough,
When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff;
But, in the midst of mirth and wine,
I with double lustre shine.
Emblem of the Fair am I,
Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;
In my eye my greatest grace,
Emblem of the Cyclops' race;
Metals I like them subdue,
Slave like them to Vulcan too;
Emblem of a monarch old,
Wise, and glorious to behold;
Wasted he appears, and pale,
Watching for the public weal:
Emblem of the bashful dame,
That in secret feeds her flame,
Often aiding to impart
All the secrets of her heart;
Various is my bulk and hue,
Big like Bess, and small like Sue:
Now brown and burnish'd like a nut,
At other times a very slut;
Often fair, and soft, and tender,
Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender:
Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers,
Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours:
But whatever be my dress,
Greater be my size or less,
Swelling be my shape or small,
Like thyself I shine in all.
Clouded if my face is seen,
My complexion wan and green,
Languid like a love-sick maid,
Steel affords me present aid.
Soon or late, my date is done,
As my thread of life is spun;
Yet to cut the fatal thread
Oft revives my drooping head;
Yet I perish in my prime,
Seldom by the death of time;
Die like lovers as they gaze,
Die for those I live to please;
Pine unpitied to my urn,
Nor warm the fair for whom I burn:
Unpitied, unlamented too,
Die like all that look on you.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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In A Letter To C. P. Esq. In Imitation Of Shakspeare
Trust me the meed of praise, dealt thriftily
From the nice scale of judgement, honours more
Than does the lavish and o'erbearing tide
Of profuse courtesy. Not all the gems
Of India's richest soil at random spread
O'er the gay vesture of some glittering dame,
Give such alluring vantage to the person,
As the scant lustre of a few, with choice
And comely guise of ornament disposed.
poem by William Cowper
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Written in a Flower Book, of my own Colouring, designed for Lady Plymouth
Debitae nymphis opifex coronae.-Hor.
Imitation.
Constructor of the tributary wreath
For rural maids.
Bring, Flora, bring thy treasures here,
The pride of all the blooming year;
And let me thence a garland frame,
To crown this fair, this peerless dame!
But, ah! since envious Winter lowers,
And Hewell meads resign their flowers,
Let Art and Friendship's joint essay
Diffuse their flowerets in her way.
Not Nature can, herself, prepare
A worthy wreath for Lesbia's hair,
Whose temper, like her forehead, smooth,
Whose thoughts and accents form'd to soothe,
Whose pleasing mien, and make refined,
Whose artless breast, and polish'd mind,
From all the nymphs of plain or grove,
Deserved and won by Plymouth's love!
poem by William Shenstone
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Most People Love Nature
Most people love Nature in their own sort of way
And the voices of Nature we hear night and day
The artists sketch Nature and the poets sing her praise
And the wonders of Nature never cease to amaze
Our Earth Mother the one who does live as she please
The babble of her rivers that never does cease
The unmistakeable soughing of the freshening breeze
In the woods and the fields in the bushes and trees
Her beauty is everywhere all around me
Where-ever I turn to look I do see
Her marvellous creations are before my eyes
And every day for us she has some new surprise
Her creatures of night and her creatures of day
Most people love Nature in their own sort of way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Elegy XXIV. He Takes Occasion, From the Fate of Eleanor of Bretagne
He Takes Occasion, From the Fate of Eleanor of Bretagne, To Suggest the Imperfect Pleasures of a Solitary Life.
When Beauty mourns, by Fate's injurious doom,
Hid from the cheerful glance of human eye,
When Nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb,
Hard is that heart which checks the rising sigh.
Fair Eleonora! would no gallant mind,
The cause of Love, the cause of Justice, own?
Matchless thy charms, and was no life resign'd
To see them sparkle from their native throne?
Or had fair Freedom's hand unveil'd thy charms,
Well might such brows the regal gem resign;
Thy radiant mien might scorn the guilt of arms,
Yet Albion's awful empire yield to thine.
O shame of Britons! in one sullen tower
She wet with royal tears her daily cell;
She found keen anguish every rose devour;
They sprung, they shone, they faded, and they fell.
Through one dim lattice, fringed with ivy round,
Successive suns a languid radiance threw,
To paint how fierce her angry guardian frown'd,
To mark how fast her waning beauty flew.
This, age might bear; then sated Fancy palls,
Nor warmly hopes what splendour can supply;
Fond Youth incessant mourns if rigid walls
Restrain its listening ear, its curious eye.
Believe me -- the pretence is vain!
This boasted calm that smooths our early day;
For never yet could youthful mind restrain
The alternate pant for pleasure and for praise.
Even me, by shady oak or limpid spring,
Even me, the scenes of polish'd life allure!
Some genius whispers, 'Life is on the wing,
And hard his lot that languishes obscure.
'What though thy riper mind admire no more-
The shining cincture, and the broider'd fold,
Can pierce like lightning thorough the figured ore,
And melt to dross the radiant forms of gold.
'Furs, ermines, rods, may well attract thy scorn,
The futile presents of capricious Power!
But wit, but worth, the public sphere adorn,
And who but envies then the social hour?
'Can Virtue, careless of her pupil's meed,
Forget how -- sustains the shepherd's cause?
Content in shades to tune a lonely reed,
Nor join the sounding pæan of applause?
For public haunts, impell'd by Britain's weal,
See Grenville quit the Muse's favourite ease;
And shall not swains admire his noble zeal?
Admiring praise, admiring strive to please?
'Life,' says the sage, 'affords no bliss sincere,
And courts and cells in vain our hopes renew:
But, ah! where Grenvile charms the listening ear,
'Tis hard to think the cheerless maxim true.
'The groves may smile; the rivers gently glide;
Soft through the vale resound the lonesome lay;
Even thickets yield delight, if taste preside,
But can they please, when Lyttleton's away?
'Pure as the swain's the breast of -- glows;
Ah! were the shepherd's phrase, like his, refined!
But, how improved the generous dictate flows
Through the clear medium of a polish'd mind!
'Happy the youths who, warm with Britain's love,
Her inmost wish in -- periods hear!
Happy that in the radiant circle move,
Attendant orbs, where Lonsdale gilds the sphere!
'While rural faith, and every polish'd art,
Each friendly charm, in -- conspire,
From public scenes all pensive must you part;
All joyless to the greenest fields retire!
'Go, plaintive Youth! no more by fount or stream,
Like some lone halcyon, social pleasures shun;
Go, dare the light, enjoy its cheerful beam,
And hail the bright procession of the sun.
'Then, cover'd by thy ripen'd shades, resume
The silent walk, no more by passion tost;
Then seek thy rustic haunts, the dreary gloom,
Where every art, that colours life, is lost.'
In vain! the listening Muse attends in vain!
Restraints in hostile bands her motions wait-
Yet will I grieve, and sadden all my strain,
When injured Beauty mourns the Muse's fate.
poem by William Shenstone
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Bow To The Moon
I will stand forever firm
Upon two feet, upon ground
In praise of Lady Moon,
Sister of Mother Earth
Illumination.
I will forever raise my arms
Towards the sky
In praise of Lady Moon,
The silver One
Hope.
I will chant forever Her names
My voice full of joy
In praise of Lady Moon,
The radiant One
Inspiration.
I will live forever in Her light
Soaking my core with truth
In praise of Lady Moon,
The awe of my eyes
The secrets of my soul.
15th March 2005
poem by Laura Russell
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A Regular Sort of a Guy
He fights where the fighting is thickest
And keeps his high honor clean;
From finish to start, he is sturdy of heart,
Shunning the petty and mean;
With his friends in their travail and sorrow,
He is ever there to stand by,
And hark to their plea, for they all know that he
Is a regular sort of a guy.
He cheers up the sinner repentant
And sets him again on his feet;
He is there with a slap, and a pat on the back,
For the lowliest bum on the street;
He smiles when the going is hardest,
With a spirit no money can buy;
And take it from me, we all love him 'cause he
Is a regular sort of a guy.
I don't care for the praise of the nations,
Or a niche in the great hall of fame,
Or that posterity should remember me
When my dust and the dust are the same;
But my soul will be glad if my friends say
As they turn from my bier with a sigh
"Though he left no great name, yet he played out the game
Like a regular sort of a guy."
poem by Eugene O'Neill
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Durand
Upon his canvas Nature starts to life,
Clear waters flow, majestic trees arise, --
The earth and air with beauty's shapes are rife,
And over all there bend his glorious skies.
Yes, this is Nature -- living, breathing, warm,
Ere yet her face the blight and storm have crossed;
Yes, this is Nature, in that radiant form
She wore of old, ere Paradise was lost.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Pastoral Ode. To the Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton
The morn dispensed a dubious light,
A sudden mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.
Though school'd from Fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each lowering sky
Would oft his fate bemoan,
That he, in sylvan shades forlorn,
Must waste his cheerless even and morn,
Nor praised, nor loved, nor known.
No friend to Fame's obstreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe:
The pleasures he through choice declined,
When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind,
It grieved him to forego.
Grieved him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcocks shun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the swain's familiar shade,
And scorn to quit their prey.
But see the radiant sun once more,
The brightening face of heaven restore,
And raise the doubtful dawn;
And, more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightest train appear
That ever trod the lawn.
Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame,
To think Bridgewater's honour'd name
Should grace his rustic cell;
That she, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank, and state,
Should rove where shepherds dwell.
But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour sway'd, by taste refined,
Will nought but vice disdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows,
Deem every flower a weed that blows
Amid the desert plain.
Beseems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,
Nor equal meed receive;
At most such garlands from the field,
As cowslips, pinks, and pansies, yield,
And rural hands can weave.
Yet strive, ye shepherds! strive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring;
If haply thus you lovely fair
May, round her temples, deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.
O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious lake betray'd
Athena's placid mien!
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms required the song,
'Mid hazel copses green!
Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclined,
While busy Fancy calls to mind
The glories of his line!
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder shed,
As through enchantment, shine.
But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph descend to stray
From Hagley's famed retreat?
Else, by the blooming features fair,
The faultless make, the matchless air,
'Twere Cynthia's form complete.
So would some tuberose delight,
That struck the pilgrim's wondering sight
'Mid lonely deserts drear;
All as at eve, the sovereign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragrant year.
Ah! now no more, the shepherd cried,
Must I Ambition's charms deride,
Her subtle force disown;
No more of Fauns or Fairies dream,
While Fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.
By low-brow'd rock or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazzled eyes astray;
But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend,
Its more illustrious ray?
Nor is it long, O plaintive swain!
Since Guernsey saw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,
The partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise,
Had stolen through life unseen.
Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bower
To smile familiar here:
O form'd by Nature to disclose,
How fair that courtesy which flows
From social warmth sincere!
Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since Pollio sought this lonely shade,
Admired this rural maze:
The noblest breast that Virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,
Might pant for Pollio's praise.
Say, Thomson here was known to rest;
For him you vernal seat I drest,
Ah, never to return!
In place of wit and melting strains,
And social mirth, it now remains
To weep beside his urn.
Come then, my Lelius! come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore
With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward Fate accuse,
That envied his impartial Muse,
To sing your early praise.
While Philo, to whose favour'd sight
Antiquity, with full delight,
Her inmost wealth displays;
Beneath yon ruin's moulder'd wall
Shall muse, and with his friends recall
The pomp of ancient days.
Here, too, shall Conway's name appear;
He praised the stream so lovely clear,
That shone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's polish'd tongue.
Even Pitt, whose fervent periods roll
Resistless through the kindling soul
Of senates, councils, kings-
Though form'd for courts, vouchsafed to rove,
Inglorious, through the shepherd's grove,
And ope his bashful springs.
But what can courts discover more
Than these rude haunts have seen before,
Each fount and shady tree?
Have not these trees and fountains seen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless Aylesbury?
And Grenville, she whose radiant eyes
Have mark'd by slow gradation rise
The princely piles of Stowe;
Yet praised these unembellish'd woods,
And smiled to see the babbling floods
Through self-worn mazes flow.
Say, Dartmouth, who your banks admired,
Again beneath your caves retired,
Shall grace the pensive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection sway'd?
Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear;
Ye sailors! though his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other spheres to charm;
The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.
O Lyttleton! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy generous breast,
Thy firm yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How Fortune, too, conspires with Fame;
The song should please mankind.
poem by William Shenstone
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She Is Beauty's Soul
She is the lovely princess of all beauty there,
She is the reigning queen of all charms there;
Bright she looks, as fragrant white jasmine,
Of everlasting fragrance of gentle sweet smile.
Like sunshine of dawn of rising Sun she is,
Calm and pleasant, and stirs grand hopes;
She is godly spell of divine benevolence,
Goddess on throne, she radiates reverence.
She is dazzling halo of beauty's lasting spell,
Of its cosmic depth and its celestial scale;
Shock of contentment, she spills and fills around,
And subtle joy pervades in her sweet presence,
Elegant are her moves, soothing, her words,
Like the fullmoon light, she flows thro' hearts;
It's soothing love desires, uncanny sweet dreams
She inspires in soul by her lovely radiant look.
Bright are her eyes like the Sun in twain,
Profulgent of sunshine in lily-like white,
Or is it jasmine white liquesced as her eyes,
Spotless and clear, but gentle to look at.
What is true beauty, you know by her look;
She is beauty's soul, liquesced and instilled;
Her curves and shapes, gestalt and tones
Perfect in bearing, and perfect proportions.
Fluid is her beauty, deeply imbrued in nectar,
Spills divine spells wherever you look at her;
Lighted lamp, her beauty, sacred, low, slow,
Spreading pleasant light, ceaseless for aeons.
Peace in elegance is infused in her face,
Warm smile is her mark, like shine in eyes;
Silence is her front, humility is her wealth,
Gentle at her core, she mingles with all.
She is unclouded beauty, bright always,
Blossoming like flower, full of fragrance;
Pure like morning dew, she is spotless,
She is beauty's essence, extracted, instilled.
Her smile is honey milk flowing all the way,
Her smile is rose blossoming with nectar;
Twinkles in her eyes is full of dreams,
That spur her worlds to drench in colours.
She is live orchestra of rhymes and rhythms,
She is godly melody from the finest chords,
Those lines and curves in concinnity with soul
That ring live harmony and hatch that beauty.
Like fragrant flame of camphor and sandal paste,
Pleasantly mild and gentle and soothing she is;
Like milk and honey, and the nature's grand rhythms,
She is the innate harmony of beauty and charm.
She is gentle passions wrapped in concinnity,
She is selfless love liquesced in her soul,
She is sacred light that scatters darkness,
She bestows true peace and contentment on me.
She is beauty's beauty for all shapes and forms,
She makes beauty, beauty, and lights joy from it;
She is beauty's soul, its sanctum sanctorum,
Its essence, its light, spring of my happiness.
Priya is my spell of divine happiness,
Priya is my fount of beauty in the world,
And beauty is the fount that springs happiness,
Happiness is the root that sprouts all beauty.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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You Meaner Beauties of the Night
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the sun shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your voices understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
poem by Henry Wotton
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A Fragment
Nay, deem me not insensible, Cesario,
To female charms; nor think this heart of mine
Is cas'd in adamant; because, forsooth,
I cannot ogle, and hyperbolize,
And whisper tender nothings in the ear
Of ev'ry would-be beauty, holding out
The bright but treacherous flame of flattery,
To watch the she-moths of a drawing room
Sport round the beam, and burn their pretty wings,
Ere conscious of their danger: yet, believe me,
I love a maid whose untranscended form
Is yet less lovely than her spotless mind.
With modest frankness, unaffected genius,
Unchang'd good humour, beauty void of art,
And polish'd wit that seeks not to offend,
And winning smiles that seek not to betray,
She charms the sight, and fascinates the soul.
Where dwells this matchless nymph? alas, Cesario,
'Tis but a sickly creature of my fancy,
Unparallel'd in nature.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Nature & Its Beauty
beauty is nature in all it's glory,
preaching us a lot of story.
fall, winter, summer & spring,
the site of the nature is a beautiful thing.
as the sun sets my heart did rise,
the stars shined within the skies.
my soul glowed as the wind stirred,
my breath caught at a sound of a bear.
little animals moving through in night,
climbing, slithering, roaring in flight.
darkness en wrapped me with a comforting touch,
oh i love this nature so much.
filled with happiness & desperate love,
nature has adorn this beautiful earth.
helping us as a gift of god,
nature provided us love of all sort.
for all it's goodness we have altered it by & by,
so much so that the nature would cry.
it's time for us to pay nature's dew,
not for me & not for you.
just do your bit to regain the beauty of nature,
so let us save this huge creature...!
poem by Rajat chandra
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Hymn XVI: Happy the Souls That First Believed
Happy the souls that first believed,
To Jesus and each other cleaved,
Joined by the unction from above
In mystic fellowship of love.
Meek, simple followers of the Lamb,
They lived, and spake, and thought the same;
They joyfully conspired to raise
Their ceaseless sacrifice of praise.
With grace abundantly endued,
A pure, believing multitude,
They all were of one heart and soul,
And only love inspired the whole.
O what an age of golden days!
O what a choice, peculiar race!
Washed in the Lamb's all-cleansing blood,
Anointed kings and priests to God!
Ye different sects, who all declare,
'Lo, here is Christ! ' or, 'Christ is here!'
Your stronger proofs divinely give,
And show me where the Christians live.
The gates of hell cannot prevail;
The church on earth can never fail;
Ah, join me to thy secret ones!
Ah, gather all thy living stones!
Scattered o'er all the earth they lie,
Till thou collect them with thine eye,
Draw by the music of thy name,
And charm into a beauteous frame.
For this the pleading Spirit groans,
And cries in all thy banished ones;
Greatest of gifts, thy love impart,
And make us of one mind and heart.
Join every soul that looks to thee
In bonds of perfect charity;
Now, Lord, the glorious fullness give,
And all in all for ever live!
poem by Charles Wesley
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Nature
Hey Man! Enjoy the Nature
Come out and see the beauties of Nature,
Put aside your hurries and worries
Come out and see the beautiful trees,
Lay aside your business tensions
Refresh your mind by seeing the vast oceans,
Ignore your official phone calls
Come out and watch the gushing waterfalls,
Free yourself for a while from the T.V. fun
See the beauty of the blazing sun,
Forget for a moment your official words
Hear the sound of the chirping birds,
Not only utilise the joy that money gives
But also listen to the noise of the swaying leaves,
Don’t waste your time by attending phones
Come out and see the beauty of the round stones,
Not only eat and grow fatter
But also see the beauty of the flowing water,
While roaming in your luxury cars
Spare sometime man to see the twinkling stars!
You would find nature as a real boon
When only once you watch the radiant moon,
Why not enjoy Nature, Why man Why?
See how cute looks the clear blue sky…!
poem by Kavita Iyer
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Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven
Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven;
To His feet Thy tribute bring!
Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,
Who like me His praise should sing?
Praise Him! praise Him!
Praise the everlasting King!
Praise Him for His grace and favour,
To our fathers in distress!
Praise Him still the same for ever,
Slow to chide, and swift to bless!
Praise Him! praise Him!
Glorious in His faithfulness!
Father-like, He tends and spares us;
Well our feeble frame He knows.
In His hands He gently bears us,
Rescues us from all our foes,
Praise Him! praise Him!
Widely as His mercy flows!
Frail as summer's flower we flourish:
Blows the wind, and it is gone.
But while mortals rise and perish,
God endures unchanging on.
Praise Him, Praise Him,
Praise the high eternal One!
Angels, help us to adore Him;
Ye behold Him face to face:
Sun and moon, bow down before Him;
Dwellers all in time and space,
Praise Him! praise Him!
Praise with us the God of grace!
poem by Henry Francis Lyte
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Elegy on the Death of Lady Middleton
THE knell of death, that on the twilight gale,
Swells its deep murmur to the pensive ear;
In awful sounds repeats a mournful tale,
And claims the tribute of a tender tear.
The dreadful hour is past ! the mandate giv'n!
The gentle MIDDLETON shall breathe no more,
Yet who shall blame the wise decrees of Heaven,
Or the dark mysteries of Fate explore?
No more her converse shall delight the heart;
No more her smile benign spread pleasure round;
No more her liberal bosom shall impart
The balm of pity to Affliction's wound.
Her soul above the pride of noble birth,
Above the praises of an empty name,
By graceful MEEKNESS mark'd superior worth,
By peerless VIRTUES claim'd the fairest fame,
Nor did those Virtues flaunt their innate rays,
To court applause, or charm the vulgar throng,
No ostentatious glare illum'd her days,
No idle boast escap'd her tuneful tongue.
When FAME, ambitious to record her praise,
On glitt'ring pinions spread her name afar,
Her gentle nature shunn'd the dazzling blaze,
Mild as the lustre of the morning star!
DIVINE BENEVOLENCE around her shone!
The chastest manners spoke her spotless mind;
That Pow'r who gave now claims her for his own,
Pure as the cherub she has left behind.
As round her couch the winged darts of death
Reluctant flew from Fate's unerring bow,
Immortal angels claim'd her quivering breath,
And snatch'd her spirit from a world of woe.
Calm resignation smil'd upon her cheek,
And HOPE'S refulgent beam illum'd her eye;
While FAITH, celestial VIRTUE'S handmaid meek,
On wings of seraphs bore her to the sky.
Ye poor, who from her gen'rous bounty fed;
Oh! to HER mem'ry give the fame that's due;
For oft, from pleasure's blithe meanders led,
Her pensive bosom felt a pang for YOU.
Yet, cease to mourn a sainted Spirit gone
To seek its resting place, beyond the skies;
Where 'midst the glories of TH' ETERNAL's throne,
She tastes celestial bliss THAT NEVER DIES!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Nature's Way
To tribulations of mankind
Dame Nature is indifferent;
To human sorrow she is blind,
And deaf to human discontent.
Mid fear and fratricidal fray,
Mid woe and tyranny of toil,
She goes her unregarding way
Of sky and sun and soil.
In leaf and blade, in bud and bloom
Exultantly her gladness glows,
And careless of Man's dreary doom
Around the palm she wreathes the rose;
Creating beauty everywhere,
With happy bird in holy song . . .
Please God, let us be unaware
Like her of wrath and wrong.
Let us too be indifferent,
And in her hands our fate resign;
Aye, though the world with rage is rent
Let us be placid as the pine.
For if we turn from greed and guile
Maybe Dame Nature will relent,
And bless us with her lovely smile
Of comfort and content.
poem by Robert William Service
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Sonnet XXXIII. To The Naiad Of The Arun
GO, rural Naiad! wind thy stream along
Through woods and wilds: then seek the ocean caves
Where sea-nymphs meet their coral rocks among,
To boast the various honours of their waves!
'Tis but a little, o'er thy shallow tide,
That toiling trade her burden'd vessel leads;
But laurels grow luxuriant on thy side,
And letters live along thy classic meads.
Lo! where 'mid British bards thy natives shine!
And now another poet helps to raise
Thy glory high--the poet of the MINE ,
Whose brilliant talents are his smallest praise:
And who, to all that genius can impart,
Adds the cool head, and the unblemish'd heart.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Hymn XVI: Happy the Souls That First Believed
Happy the souls that first believed,
To Jesus and each other cleaved,
Joined by the unction from above
In mystic fellowship of love.
Meek, simple followers of the Lamb,
They lived, and spake, and thought the same;
They joyfully conspired to raise
Their ceaseless sacrifice of praise.
With grace abundantly endued,
A pure, believing multitude,
They all were of one heart and soul,
And only love inspired the whole.
O what an age of golden days!
O what a choice, peculiar race!
Washed in the Lamb's all-cleansing blood,
Anointed kings and priests to God!
Ye different sects, who all declare,
"Lo, here is Christ! " or, "Christ is here!"
Your stronger proofs divinely give,
And show me where the Christians live.
The gates of hell cannot prevail;
The church on earth can never fail;
Ah, join me to thy secret ones!
Ah, gather all thy living stones!
Scattered o'er all the earth they lie,
Till thou collect them with thine eye,
Draw by the music of thy name,
And charm into a beauteous frame.
For this the pleading Spirit groans,
And cries in all thy banished ones;
Greatest of gifts, thy love impart,
And make us of one mind and heart.
Join every soul that looks to thee
In bonds of perfect charity;
Now, Lord, the glorious fullness give,
And all in all for ever live!
poem by John Wesley
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