An Invitation to Dafnis
When such a day, blesst the Arcadian plaine,
Warm without Sun, and shady without rain,
Fann'd by an air, that scarsly bent the flowers,
Or wav'd the woodbines, on the summer bowers,
The Nymphs disorder'd beauty cou'd not fear,
Nor ruffling winds uncurl'd the Shepheards hair,
On the fresh grasse, they trod their measures light,
And a long Evening made, from noon, to night.
Come then my Dafnis, from those cares descend
Which better may the winter season spend.
Come, and the pleasures of the feilds, survey,
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Reading the softest Poetry, refuse,
To veiw the subjects of each rural muse;
Nor lett the busy compasses go round,
When faery Cercles better mark the ground.
Rich Colours on the Vellum cease to lay,
When ev'ry lawne much nobler can display,
When on the daz'ling poppy may be seen
A glowing red, exceeding your carmine;
And for the blew that o're the Sea is borne,
A brighter rises in our standing corn.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the feilds survey,
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Come, and lett Sansons World, no more engage,
Altho' he gives a Kingdom in a page;
O're all the Vniverse his lines may goe,
And not a clime, like temp'rate brittan show,
Come then, my Dafnis, and her feilds survey,
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Nor plead that you're immur'd, and cannot yield,
That mighty Bastions keep you from the feild,
Think not tho' lodg'd in Mons, or in Namur,
You're from my dangerous attacks secure.
No, Louis shall his falling Conquests fear,
When by succeeding Courriers he shall hear
Appollo, and the Muses, are drawn down,
To storm each fort, and take in ev'ry Town.
Vauban, the Orphean Lyre, to mind shall call,
That drew the stones to the old Theban Wall,
And make no doubt, if itt against him play,
They, from his works, will fly as fast away,
Which to prevent, he shall to peace persuade,
Of strong, confederate Syllables, affraid.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the fields survey,
And throo' the Groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Come, and attend, how as we walk along,
Each chearfull bird, shall treat us with a song,
Nott such as Fopps compose, where witt, nor art,
Nor plainer Nature, ever bear a part;
The Cristall springs, shall murmure as we passe,
But not like Courtiers, sinking to disgrace;
Nor, shall the louder Rivers, in their fall,
Like unpaid Saylers, or hoarse Pleaders brawle;
But all shall form a concert to delight,
And all to peace, and all to love envite.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the feilds survey,
And throo' the Groves, with your Ardelia stray.
As Baucis and Philemon spent their lives,
Of husbands he, the happyest she, of wives,
When throo' the painted meads, their way they sought,
Harmlesse in act, and unperplext in thought,
Lett us my Dafnis, rural joys persue,
And Courts, or Camps, not ev'n in fancy view.
So, lett us throo' the Groves, my Dafnis stray,
And so, the pleasures of the feilds, survey.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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song performed by by Mushroomhead from Superbuick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stray dogs
Here and there and everywhere
Stray dogs doing business
And barkedup wrongtrees
And spoiled the working
Environments.
Stray dogs have no
Commonsense not true
Stray dogs encounter
The alien.
Stray dogs safeguard
The interest
And ensure to make
The area clean.
Stray dogs welcome
Common mass
Stray dogs do not like
Corrupt class.
Stray dogs can only think
The morrows
Stray dogs have practical
Experience and knowledge
You know I know all know.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Ode to a Young Lady
[Somewhat Too Solicitious about Her Manner of Expression]
Survey, my fair! that lucid stream,
Adown the smiling valley stray;
Would Art attempt, or Fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way?
So pleas'd I view thy shining hair
In loose dishevell'd ringlets flow:
Not all thy art, not all thy care,
Can there one single grace bestow.
Survey again that verdant hill,
With native plants enamell'd o'er;
Say, can the painter's utmost skill
Instruct one flower to please us more?
As vain it were, with artful dye
To change the bloom thy cheeks disclose;
And oh may Laura, ere she try,
With fresh vermilion paint the rose.
Hark how the wood-lark's tuneful throat
Can every study'd grace excel;
Let Art constrain the rambling note,
And will she, Laura, please so well?
Oh ever keep thy native ease,
By no pedantic law confin'd!
For Laura's voice is form'd to please,
So Laura's words be not unkind.
poem by William Shenstone
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Ray...
Sometimes i sit and think about yesterday...
Of all those simple words that i didn't even say.
I just sit back and wonder why... (wonder why...)
...everything is just bought and sold,
And why everyone listens to what they're told.
No matter what you do you'll never get ahead
And to everyone else you're just better off dead!
Sometimes i sit and watch you on t.v.
And i just think about how cruel it would be...
To call your family at a quarter 'til four.
"ray doesn't live here anymore..." (anymore...)
Survey...sez,
Survey sez yeah!
Survey...sez.
song performed by by Ataris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Impromptu, to Lady Winchelsea
In vain you boast Poetic Names of yore,
And cite those Sapho's we admire no more:
Fate doom'd the Fall of ev'ry Female Wit,
But doom'd it then when first Ardelia writ.
Of all Examples by the World confest,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her Mistress on Britannia's Throne;
Fights, and subdues in Quarrels not her own.
To write their Praise you but in vain essay;
Ev'n while you write, you take that Praise away:
Light to the Stars the Sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.
poem by Alexander Pope
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The Appology
'Tis true I write and tell me by what Rule
I am alone forbid to play the fool
To follow through the Groves a wand'ring Muse
And fain'd Idea's for my pleasures chuse
Why shou'd it in my Pen be held a fault
Whilst Mira paints her face, to paint a thought
Whilst Lamia to the manly Bumper flys
And borrow'd Spiritts sparkle in her Eyes
Why shou'd itt be in me a thing so vain
To heat with Poetry my colder Brain?
But I write ill and there-fore shou'd forbear
Does Flavia cease now at her fortieth year
In ev'ry Place to lett that face be seen
Which all the Town rejected at fifteen
Each Woman has her weaknesse; mind [sic] indeed
Is still to write tho' hopelesse to succeed
Nor to the Men is this so easy found
Ev'n in most Works with which the Witts abound
(So weak are all since our first breach with Heav'n)
Ther's lesse to be Applauded than forgiven.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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The Garden
I saw the spot where our first parents dwelt;
And yet it wore to me no face of change,
For while amid its fields and groves I felt
As if I had not sinned, nor thought it strange;
My eye seemed but a part of every sight,
My ear heard music in each sound that rose,
Each sense forever found a new delight,
Such as the spirit's vision only knows;
Each act some new and ever-varying joy
Did by my Father's love for me prepare;
To dress the spot my ever fresh employ,
And in the glorious whole with Him to share;
No more without the flaming gate to stray,
No more for sin's dark stain the debt of death to pay.
poem by Jones Very
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Friendship Between Ephelia And Ardelia
Eph. What Friendship is, ARDELIA shew.
Ard. 'Tis to love, as I love You.
Eph. This Account, so short (tho' kind)
Suits not my enquiring Mind.
Therefore farther now repeat;
What is Friendship when complete?
Ard. 'Tis to share all Joy and Grief;
'Tis to lend all due Relief
From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand;
'Tis to mortgage House and Land;
For a Friend be sold a Slave;
'Tis to die upon a Grave,
If a Friend therein do lie.
Eph. This indeed, tho' carry'd high,
This, tho' more than e'er was done
Underneath the rolling Sun,
This has all been said before.
Can ARDELIA say no more?
Ard. Words indeed no more can shew:
But 'tis to love, as I love you.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Peace
Peace is not sleep of mind
But a form of suppressed war,
Ever warring against lust of martyrdom,
And the mind lost in stray thoughts
And a fickle heart fat with stray devotion.
Peace like charity starts at home,
And is of the nature of conquest,
Conquering first desire on evil bent
As the acid test of manhood,
That no battle has ever known.
No less than war
Peace has its own victories,
Short of which man has nothing.
poem by Yoonoos Peerbocus
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To Mr. F. Now Earl of W
No sooner, FLAVIO, was you gone,
But, your Injunction thought upon,
ARDELIA took the Pen;
Designing to perform the Task,
Her FLAVIO did so kindly ask,
Ere he returned agen.
Unto Parnassus strait she sent,
And bid the Messenger, that went
Unto the Muses Court,
Assure them, she their Aid did need,
And begg'd they'd use their utmost Speed,
Because the Time was short.
The hasty Summons was allow'd;
And being well-bred, they rose and bow'd,
And said, they'd poste away;
That well they did ARDELIA know,
And that no Female's Voice below
They sooner wou'd obey:
That many of that rhiming Train,
On like Occasions, sought in vain
Their Industry t'excite;
But for ARDELIA all they'd leave:
Thus flatt'ring can the Muse deceive,
And wheedle us to write.
Yet, since there was such haste requir'd;
To know the Subject 'twas desir'd,
On which they must infuse;
That they might temper Words and Rules,
And with their Counsel carry Tools,
As Country-Doctors use.
Wherefore to cut off all Delays,
'Twas soon reply'd, a Husband's Praise
(Tho' in these looser Times)
ARDELIA gladly wou'd rehearse
A Husband's, who indulg'd her Verse,
And now requir'd her Rimes.
A Husband! eccho'd all around:
And to Parnassus sure that Sound
Had never yet been sent;
Amazement in each Face was read,
In haste th'affrighted Sisters fled,
And unto Council went.
Erato cry'd, since Grizel's Days,
Since Troy-Town pleas'd, and Chivey-chace,
No such Design was known;
And 'twas their Bus'ness to take care,
It reach'd not to the publick Ear,
Or got about the Town:
Nor came where Evening Beaux were met
O'er Billet-doux and Chocolate,
Lest it destroy'd the House;
For in that Place, who cou'd dispence
(That wore his Cloaths with common Sense)
With mention of a Spouse?
'Twas put unto the Vote at last,
And in the Negative it past,
None to her Aid shou'd move;
Yet since ARDELIA was a Friend,
Excuses 'twas agreed to send,
Which plausible might prove:
That Pegasus of late had been
So often rid thro' thick and thin,
With neither Fear nor Wit;
In Panegyrick been so spurr'd
He cou'd not from the Stall be stirr'd,
Nor wou'd endure the Bit.
Melpomene had given a Bond,
By the new House alone to stand,
And write of War and Strife;
Thalia, she had taken Fees,
And Stipends from the Patentees,
And durst not for her Life.
Urania only lik'd the Choice;
Yet not to thwart the publick Voice,
She whisp'ring did impart:
They need no Foreign Aid invoke,
No help to draw a moving Stroke,
Who dictate from the Heart.
Enough! the pleas'd ARDELIA cry'd;
And slighting ev'ry Muse beside,
Consulting now her Breast,
Perceiv'd that ev'ry tender Thought,
Which from abroad she'd vainly sought,
Did there in Silence rest:
And shou'd unmov'd that Post maintain,
Till in his quick Return again,
Met in some neighb'ring Grove,
(Where Vice nor Vanity appear)
Her FLAVIO them alone might hear,
In all the Sounds of Love.
For since the World do's so despise
Hymen's Endearments and its Ties,
They shou'd mysterious be;
Till We that Pleasure too possess
(Which makes their fancy'd Happiness)
Of stollen Secrecy.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Love's pain sang round my life like the unplumbed sea, and love's joy sang like birds in its flowering groves.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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In survey after survey, the Iraqi people say, 'We want to choose our leaders.'
quote by Scott McClellan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Pastoral Ballad II: Hope
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white-over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-briar entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
One would think she might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away.
From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,
As -- she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she aver'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I lov'd her the more, when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to -- a dove:
That it ever attended the bold;
And she call'd it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs!
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise?
Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.
But where does my Phyllida stray?
And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.
poem by William Shenstone
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Elegy IV. Ophilia's Urn. To Mr. Graves
Through the dim veil of evening's dusky shade,
Near some lone fane, or yew's funereal green,
What dreary forms has magic Fear survey'd!
What shrouded spectres Superstition seen!
But you, secure, shall pour your sad complaint,
Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array;
What none but Fear's officious hand can paint,
What none, but Superstition's eye, survey.
The glimmering twilight and the doubtful dawn
Shall see your step to these sad scenes return:
Constant, as crystal dews impearl the lawn,
Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn.
Sure nought unhallow'd shall presume to stray
Where sleep the relics of that virtuous maid;
Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way,
Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.
Haply thy Muse, as with unceasing sighs
She keeps late vigils, on her urn reclined,
May see light groups of pleasing visions rise,
And phantoms glide, but of celestial kind.
Then Fame, her clarion pendent at her side,
Shall seek forgiveness of Ophelia's shade;
'Why has such worth, without distinction, died?
Why, like the desert's lily, bloom'd to fade?'
Then young Simplicity, averse to feign,
Shall, unmolested, breathe her softest sigh,
And Candour with unwonted warmth complain,
And Innocence indulge a wailful cry.
Then Elegance, with coy judicious hand,
Shall cull fresh flowerets for Ophelia's tomb;
And Beauty chide the Fate's severe command,
That show'd the frailty of so fair a bloom!
And Fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe,
Shall her loved pupil's native taste explain;
For mournful sable all her hues forego,
And ask sweet solace of the Muse in vain!
Ah! gentle Forms! expect no fond relief;
Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore:
Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of grief-
Your best, your brightest favourite is no more.
poem by William Shenstone
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Behold, My Love, How Green the Groves
Behold, my love, how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair;
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flowing hair.
The lav’rock shuns the palace gay,
And o’er the cottage sings:
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To Shepherds as to Kings.
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string,
In lordly lighted ha’:
The Shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe in the birken shaw.
The Princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi’ scorn;
But are their hearts as light as ours,
Beneath the milk-white thorn!
The shepherd, in the flowery glen;
In shepherd’s phrase, will woo:
The courtier tells a finer tale,
But is his heart as true!
These wild-wood flowers I’ve pu’d, to deck
That spotless breast o’ thine:
The courtiers’ gems may witness love,
But, ’tis na love like mine.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Why do we stray?
Living everyday for God brings joy.
Than why is it so hard, So hard to stay, But so easy to stray,
To stray from those hands holding us near,
To betray him and then to fear,
To fear his face,
Embarrassed that we are so weak.
He gives strength, Strength for the weak,
Than why do we stray from what we seek,
Is it our nature, Our nature to turn away,
If so than maybe to fix our faults we must seek him and pray.
poem by Nathan Dusciuc
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Do Not Stray To Far My Love
Do not stray to far my love
a second, a minute, an hour
tears at my heart in your absence
though my love grows fonder
and more determined to fight
do not stray to far my love
it is your spirit, your soul
the heart I see within you
which gives me strength
reveals all that is beautiful
and shows me hope
do not stray to far my love
for there is a weeping tear
which only your name can dry
and it is in all this love
a word spoken with ease
that I see a truth in myself
without you I will be lost
do not stray to far my love
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Troubled By The Way We Came Togheter
From hand to hand you bought and sold,
Blood is the shield against the weather,
Became a stone for fear of being melted,
Troubled from the day we came together.
When you recover, from yesterdays low,
Tue slave to traction of pleasure,
I collect the embers as I watch you grow,
You left along the way we came together.
As you breathe, as you breathe into life
You will lead, you will lead,
As you stray, as you stray far from home,
I will believe, I will believe.
Flames of love immerse you,
Cradle and coerce you,
Shadows over on the place you play,
Names of love we mind along the way,
Seem shallowed by the way we came together.
My heart carries on,
But my head knows better,
Troubled by the way we came together.
As you breathe, as you breathe into life
You will lead, you will lead,
As you stray, as you stray far from home,
I will believe, I will believe.
cause you are here today, and gone tomorrow,
Basking in the fields of never never,
You wanted today, oh but I wanted forever,
Troubled by the way we came together.
My heart carries on,
But my head knows better,
Troubled by the way we came together.
As you breathe, as you breathe into life
You will lead, you will lead,
As you stray, as you stray far from home,
I will believe, I will believe.
cause you are here today,
And gone tomorrow...
song performed by by Natalie Imbruglia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song XVIII. - Imitated from the French
Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!
Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be still though, my Heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the season of love is no more.
With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bowers
Or loiter'd behind, and collected the flowers!
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she view'd!
But be still, my fond Heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.
poem by William Shenstone
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Stanzas Written By Thomson On The Blank Leaf Of A Copy Of His 'Seasons' Sent By Him To Mr. Lyttleton, Soon After The Death Of His Wife
Go, little book, and find our Friend,
Who Nature and the Muses loves,
Who cares the public virtues blend
With all the softness of the groves.
A fitter time thou canst not choose,
His fostering friendship to repay;
Go then, and try, my rural muse,
To steal his widowed hours away.
poem by James Thomson
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