En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Jupiter And The Farmer

When Poets gave their God in Crete a Birth,
Then Jupiter held Traffick with the Earth,
And had a Farm to Lett: the Fine was high,
For much the Treas'ry wanted a Supply,
By Danae's wealthy Show'r exhausted quite, and dry.
But Merc'ry, who as Steward kept the Court,
So rack'd the Rent, that all who made Resort
Unsatisfy'd return'd, nor could agree
To use the Lands, or pay his secret Fee;
'Till one poor Clown (thought subt'ler than the rest,
Thro' various Projects rolling in his Breast)
Consents to take it, if at his Desire
All Weathers tow'rds his Harvest may conspire;
The Frost to kill the Worm, the brooding Snow,
The filling Rains may come, and Phoebus glow.
The Terms accepted, sign'd and seal'd the Lease,
His Neighbours Grounds afford their due Encrease
The Care of Heav'n; the Owner's Cares may cease.
Whilst the new Tenant, anxious in his Mind,
Now asks a Show'r, now craves a rustling Wind
To Raise what That had lodg'd, that he the Sheaves may bind.
The Sun, th'o'er-shadowing Clouds, the moistning Dews
He with such Contrariety does chuse;
So often and so oddly shifts the Scene,
Whilst others Load, he scarce has what to Glean.

O Jupiter! with Famine pinch'd he cries,
No more will I direct th' unerring Skies;
No more my Substance on a Project lay,
No more a sullen Doubt I will betray,
Let me but live to Reap, do Thou appoint the way

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Mercury And Cupid

In sullen Humour one Day Jove
Sent Hermes down to Ida's Grove,
Commanding Cupid to deliver
His Store of Darts, his total Quiver;
That Hermes shou'd the Weapons break,
Or throw 'em into Lethe's Lake.

Hermes, You know, must do his Errand:
He found his Man, produc'd his Warrant:
Cupid, your Darts-this very Hour-
There's no contending against Power.

How sullen Jupiter, just now
I think I said: and You'll allow,
That Cupid was as bad as He:
Hear but the Youngster's Repartee.

Come Kinsman (said the little God)
Put off your Wings; lay by your Rod;
Retire with Me to yonder Bower;
And rest your self for half an Hour:
'Tis far indeed from hence to Heav'n:
And You fly fast: and 'tis but Seven.
We'll take one cooling Cup of Nectar;
And drink to this Celestial Hector-

He break my Darts, or hurt my Pow'r!
He, Leda's Swan, and Danae's Show'r!
Go, bid him his Wife's Tongue restrain;
And mind his Thunder, and his Rain.-

My Darts? O certainly I'll give 'em:
From Cloe's Eyes He shall receive 'em.
There's One, the Best in all my Quiver,
Twang! thro' his very Heart and Liver.
He then shall Pine, and Sigh, and Rave:
Good Lord! what Bustle shall We have!
Neptune must straight be sent to Sea;
And Flora summon'd twice a-day:

One must find Shells, and t'other Flow'rs,
For cooling Grotts, and fragrant Bow'rs,
That Cloe may be serv'd in State:
The Hours must at Her Toilet wait:
Whilst all the reasoning Fools below,
Wonder their Watches go too slow.
Lybs must fly South, and Eurus East,
For Jewels for Her Hair and Breast:
No Matter tho' their cruel Haste
Sink Cities, and lay Forrests waste.
No Matter tho' This Fleet be lost;
Or That lie wind-bound on the Coast.
What whis'pring in my Mother's Ear!
What Care, that Juno shou'd not hear!
What Work among You Scholar Gods!
Phoebus must write Him am'rous Odes:
And Thou, poor Cousin, must compose
His Letters in submissive Prose:
Whilst haughty Cloe, to sustain
The Honour of My mystic Reign,
Shall all his Gifts and Vows disdain;
And laugh at your Old Bully's Pain.
Dear Couz, said Hermes in a Fright,
For Heav'n sake keep Your Darts: Good Night.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Ardelia to Melancholy

At last, my old inveterate foe,
No opposition shalt thou know.
Since I by struggling, can obtain
Nothing, but encrease of pain,
I will att last, no more do soe,
Tho' I confesse, I have apply'd
Sweet mirth, and musick, and have try'd
A thousand other arts beside,
To drive thee from my darken'd breast,
Thou, who hast banish'd all my rest.
But, though sometimes, a short repreive they gave,
Unable they, and far too weak, to save;
All arts to quell, did but augment thy force,
As rivers check'd, break with a wilder course.

Freindship, I to my heart have laid,
Freindship, th' applauded sov'rain aid,
And thought that charm so strong wou'd prove,
As to compell thee, to remove;
And to myself, I boasting said,
Now I a conqu'rer sure shall be,
The end of all my conflicts, see,
And noble tryumph, wait on me;
My dusky, sullen foe, will sure
N'er this united charge endure.
But leaning on this reed, ev'n whilst I spoke
It peirc'd my hand, and into peices broke.
Still, some new object, or new int'rest came
And loos'd the bonds, and quite disolv'd the claim.

These failing, I invok'd a Muse,
And Poetry wou'd often use,
To guard me from thy Tyrant pow'r;
And to oppose thee ev'ry hour
New troops of fancy's, did I chuse.
Alas! in vain, for all agree
To yeild me Captive up to thee,
And heav'n, alone, can sett me free.
Thou, through my life, wilt with me goe,
And make ye passage, sad, and slow.
All, that cou'd ere thy ill gott rule, invade,
Their uselesse arms, before thy feet have laid;
The Fort is thine, now ruin'd, all within,
Whilst by decays without, thy Conquest too, is seen.

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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The Wanderer's Storm-Song

He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Feels no dread within his heart
At the tempest or the rain.
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Will to the rain-clouds,
Will to the hailstorm,
Sing in reply
As the lark sings,
Oh thou on high!

Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt raise above the mud-track
With thy fiery pinions.
He will wander,
As, with flowery feet,
Over Deucalion's dark flood,
Python-slaying, light, glorious,
Pythius Apollo.

Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinion
When he sleepeth on the rock,--
Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wing
In the forest's midnight hour.

Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt wrap up warmly
In the snow-drift;
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses,
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces.

Ye Muses, hover round me!
Ye Graces also!
That is water, that is earth,
And the son of water and of earth
Over which I wander,
Like the gods.

Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,
Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,
Hov'ring round me, while I hover
Over water, o'er the earth
Like the gods.

Shall he, then, return,
The small, the dark, the fiery peasant?
Shall he, then, return, waiting
Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,
And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire?
Return with joy?
And I, whom ye attended,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Whom all awaits that ye,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Of circling bliss in life
Have glorified--shall I
Return dejected?

Father Bromius!
Thourt the Genius,
Genius of ages,
Thou'rt what inward glow
To Pindar was,
What to the world
Phoebus Apollo.

Woe! Woe Inward warmth,
Spirit-warmth,
Central-point!
Gl ow, and vie with
Phoebus Apollo!
Coldly soon
His regal look
Over thee will swiftly glide,--

Envy-struck
Linger o'er the cedar's strength,
Which, to flourish,
Waits him not.

Why doth my lay name thee the last?
Thee, from whom it began,
Thee, in whom it endeth,
Thee, from whom it flows,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Tow'rd thee streams my song.
And a Castalian spring
Runs as a fellow-brook,
Runs to the idle ones,
Mortal, happy ones,
Apart from thee,
Who cov'rest me around,
Jupiter Pluvius!

Not by the elm-tree
Him didst thou visit,
With the pair of doves
Held in his gentle arm,--
With the beauteous garland of roses,--
Caressing him, so blest in his flowers,
Anacreon,
Storm-breathing godhead!
Not in the poplar grove,
Near the Sybaris' strand,
Not on the mountain's
Sun-illumined brow
Didst thou seize him,
The flower-singing,
Honey-breathing,
Sweetly nodding
Theocritus.

When the wheels were rattling,
Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal,
High arose
The sound of the lash
Of youths with victory glowing,
In the dust rolling,
As from the mountain fall
Showers of stones in the vale--
Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar--
Glowing? Poor heart!

There, on the hill,--
Heavenly might!
But enough glow
Thither to wend,
Where is my cot!

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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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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Jupiter

Maurice white, verdine white, larry dunn & philip bailey
Maurice white, verdine white, larry dunn and philip bailey
Searching in the sky one night, while looking for the moon
I viewed a mighty light approching in a zoom
Need was there to tell someone of my discovery
Fifteen seconds later, a light appeared in front of me
To my surprise, there stood a man with age and mystery
His name was jupiter and came to visit me
The name is jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
Keep your eye on jupiter, such beauty in the sky
We will wait for your return in the by & by
Keep your eye on jupiter, memories we shall fulfill
Just to view a brighter day, and do a righteous will
Watching and considering my visual state of mind
The flower fragrance help reveal to me the sign
The sigh of love, I had confessed to live and really know
The sign of love which I had failed my fellowman to show
The name is jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
The name is jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come

song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Every planet above, and every star

Every planet above, and every star,
Gave my lord their powers at his birth:
Each one gave him of their special worth,
To make a single perfect mortal here.
Saturn gave him depths of understanding,
Jupiter for fine actions gave desire,
Mars a greater skill than most in warfare,
Phoebus, elegance and wit in speaking.

Venus beauty too, and gentleness,
Mercury eloquence, but then the moon
Made him too cold for me, in iciness.
Each of these graces, each rare boon,
Make me burn for his fierce brightness,
And yet he freezes, through that one alone.

poem by Gaspara Stampa
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The Tree

Fair tree! for thy delightful shade
'Tis just that some return be made;
Sure some return is due from me
To thy cool shadows, and to thee.
When thou to birds dost shelter give,
Thou music dost from them receive;
If travellers beneath thee stay
Till storms have worn themselves away,
That time in praising thee they spend
And thy protecting pow'r commend.
The shepherd here, from scorching freed,
Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed;
Whilst his lov'd nymph, in thanks, bestows
Her flow'ry chaplets on thy boughs.
Shall I then only silent be,
And no return be made by me?
No; let this wish upon thee wait,
And still to flourish be thy fate.
To future ages may'st thou stand
Untouch'd by the rash workman's hand,
Till that large stock of sap is spent,
Which gives thy summer's ornament;
Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive
To shock thy greatness whilst alive,
Shall on thy lifeless hour attend,
Prevent the axe, and grace thy end;
Their scatter'd strength together call
And to the clouds proclaim thy fall;
Who then their ev'ning dews may spare
When thou no longer art their care,
But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn,
And some bright hearth be made thy urn.

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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The World Around the Child Doth Learn

The world around the child doth learn
Whilst low below the beast doth worm.
The child doth know not of the Earth.
The worm knows nothing of its birth.

The river flows a mighty flow
Knowing all the river knows
Shiver sorrow – Sleep in woe
Keep sane until the morrow.

The world around the child doth turn
Whilst low below the beast doth burn.
Learning sorrow – Yearning desire
Leaves him warm beside the fire.

Happy is he to conspire.
So happy is he to respire.

poem by David Lacey
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Charity : A Paraphrase On 1 Cor. Chap. 13

Did sweeter Sounds adorn my flowing Tongue,
Than ever Man pronounc'd, or Angel sung:
Had I all Knowledge, Human and Divine,
That Thought can reach, or Science can define;
And had I Pow'r to give that Knowledge Birth,
In all the Speeches of the babbling Earth:
Did Shadrach's Zeal my glowing Breast inspire,
To weary Tortures, and rejoice in Fire:
Or had I Faith like That which Israel saw,
When Moses gave them Miracles, and Law:

Yet, gracious Charity, indulgent Guest,
Were not Thy Pow'r exerted in my Breast;
Those Speeches would send up unheeded Pray'r:
That Scorn of Life would be but wild Despair:
A Tymbal's Sound were better than my Voice:
My Faith were Form: my Eloquence were Noise.
Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject Mind;
Knows with just Reins, and gentle Hand to guide,
Betwixt vile Shame, and arbitrary Pride.

Not soon provok'd, She easily forgives;
And much She suffers, as She much believes.
Soft Peace She brings where-ever She arrives:
She builds our Quiet, as She forms our Lives;
Lays the rough Paths of peevish Nature ev'n;
And opens in each Heart a little Heav'n.
Each other Gift, which GOD on Man bestows,
It's proper Bounds, and due Restriction knows;
To one fixt Purpose dedicates it's Pow'r;
And finishing it's Act, exists no more.

Thus, in Obedience to what Heav'n decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and Prophecy shall cease:
But lasting Charity's more ample Sway,
Nor bound by Time, nor subject to Decay,
In happy Triumph shall for ever live,
And endless Good diffuse, and endless Praise receive.
As thro' the Artist's intervening Glass,
Our Eye observes the distant Planets pass;
A little we discover; but allow,
That more remains unseen, than Art can show:

So whilst our Mind it's Knowledge wou'd improve;
(It's feeble Eye intent on Things above)
High as We may, We lift our Reason up,
By Faith directed, and confirm'd by Hope:
Yet are We able only to survey
Dawnings of Beams, and Promises of Day.
Heav'n's fuller Effluence mocks our dazl'd Sight;
Too great it's Swiftness, and too strong it's Light.
But soon the mediate Clouds shall be dispell'd;
The Sun shall soon be Face to Face beheld,

In all His Robes, with all His Glory on,
Seated sublime on His Meridian Throne.
Then constant Faith, and holy Hope shall dye,
One lost in Certainty, and One in Joy:
Whilst Thou, more happy Pow'r, fair Charity,
Triumphant Sister, greatest of the Three,
Thy Office, and Thy Nature still the same,
Lasting thy Lamp, and unconsum'd thy Flame,
Shalt still survive -
Shalt stand before the Host of Heav'n confest,
For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Show Me How To Live

In with the early dawn
Moving right along
I couldnt buy an eye of sleep
And in the aching night
Under satellite
I was not recieved
With the stolen parts
A telephone in my heart
Someone get me a priest
To put my mind to bed
This ringing in my head
Is this a cure is or is this a disease
Hey hey I said
Near as I can figure
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
Hey hey I said
Near as I can figure
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
In the afterbirth
On the quiet earth
Let this things remind me
You thought you made amend
You better think again
Before my row defines you
Hey hey I said
Near as I an figure
You gave me life now show me how to live
Hey hey I said
Near as I can figure
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
And in your waiting hands
I will land
And roll out of my skin
And in your final hours I will stand
Ready to begin
Ready to begin
Ready to begin
Ready to begin
Hey hey I said
Near as I can figure
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
Hey hey I said
Near as I can figure
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
Show me how to live
Show me how to live
Show me how to live
Show me how to live

song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elegy XVI: The Expostulation

TO make the doubt clear, that no woman's true,
Was it my fate to prove it strong in you?
Thought I, but one had breathèd purest air ;
And must she needs be false, because she's fair?
Is it your beauty's mark, or of your youth,
Or your perfection, not to study truth?
Or think you heaven is deaf, or hath no eyes?
Or those it hath smile at your perjuries?
Are vows so cheap with women, or the matter
Whereof they're made, that they are writ in water,
And blown away with wind? Or doth their breath
Both hot and cold, at once make life and death?
Who could have thought so many accents sweet
Form'd into words, so may sighs should meet
As from our hearts, so many oaths, and tears
Sprinkled among, all sweeten'd by our fears,
And the divine impression of stolen kisses,
That seal'd the rest, should now prove empty blisses?
Did you draw bonds to forfeit? sign to break?
Or must we read you quite from what you speak,
And find the truth out the wrong way? or must
He first desire you false, would wish you just?
O ! I profane ! though most of women be
This kind of beast, my thoughts shall except thee,
My dearest love ; though froward jealousy
With circumstance might urge thy inconstancy,
Sooner I'll think the sun will cease to cheer
The teeming earth, and that forget to bear ;
Sooner that rivers will run back, or Thames
With ribs of ice in June will bind his streams ;
Or nature, by whose strength the world endures,
Would change her course, before you alter yours.
But O ! that treacherous breast, to whom weak you
Did drift our counsels, and we both may rue,
Having his falsehood found too late ; 'twas he
That made me cast you guilty, and you me ;
Whilst he, black wretch, betray'd each simple word
We spake, unto the cunning of a third.
Cursed may he be, that so our love hath slain,
And wander on the earth, wretched as Cain,
Wretched as he, and not deserve least pity.
In plaguing him, let misery be witty ;
Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,
Till he be noisome as his infamy ;
May he without remorse deny God thrice,
And not be trusted more on his soul's price ;
And, after all self-torment, when he dies,
May wolves tear out his heart, vultures his eyes,
Swine eat his bowels, and his falser tongue
That utter'd all, be to some raven flung ;
And let his carrion corse be a longer feast
To the king's dogs, than any other beast.
Now have I cursed, let us our love revive ;
In me the flame was never more alive.
I could begin again to court and praise,
And in that pleasure lengthen the short days
Of my life's lease ; like painters that do take
Delight, not in made work, but whiles they make.
I could renew those times, when first I saw
Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law
To like what you liked ; and at masks and plays
Commend the self-same actors, the same ways ;
Ask how you did, and often with intent
Of being officious, be impertinent ;
All which were such soft pastimes, as in these
Love was as subtly catch'd as a disease.
But being got, it is a treasure sweet,
Which to defend is harder than to get ;
And ought not be profaned, on either part,
For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.

poem by John Donne
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A Letter to Her Husband, Absent upon Public Employment

My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay, more,
My joy, my magazine of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever,
If but a neck, soon should we be together.
I like the Earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac,
Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heat I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father's face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet but both one.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
Submitted by anonym
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Davideis: A Sacred Poem Of The Troubles Of David (excerpt)

BOOK I (excerpt)
I sing the man who Judah's sceptre bore
In that right hand which held the crook before;
Who from best poet, best of kings did grow;
The two chief gifts Heav'n could on man bestow.
Much danger first, much toil did he sustain,
Whilst Saul and Hell cross'd his strong fate in vain.
Nor did his crown less painful work afford;
Less exercise his patience, or his sword;
So long her conqueror fortunes spite pursued;
Till with unwearied virtue he subdued
All homebred malice, and all foreign boasts;
Their strength was armies, his the Lord of Hosts.

Thou, who didst David's royal stem adorn,
And gav'st him birth from whom thy self wast born;
Who didst in triumph at death's court appear,
And slew'st him with thy nails, thy cross and spear,
Whilst Hell's black tyrant trembled to behold,
The glorious light he forfeited of old;
Who Heav'ns glad burden now, and justest pride,
Sit'st high enthron'd next thy great Father's side,
(Where hallowed flames help to adorn that head
Which once the blushing thorns environed,
Till crimson drops of precious blood hung down
Like rubies to enrich thine humble crown.)
Even thou my breast with such blest rage inspire,
As mov'd the tuneful strings of David's lyre,
Guide my bold steps with thine old travelling flame,
In these untrodden paths to sacred fame;
Lo, with pure hands thy heav'enly fires to take,
My well-chang'd Muse I a chaste vestal make!
From earth's vain joys, and love's soft witchcraft free,
I consecrate my Magdalene to thee!
Lo, this great work, a temple to thy praise,
On polish'd pillars of strong verse I raise!
A temple, where if thou vouchsafe to dwell,
It Solomon's, and Herod's shall excel.
Too long the Muses-land have heathen bin;
Their gods too long were devils, and virtues sin;
But thou, Eternal Word, has call'd forth me
Th' apostle, to convert that world to thee;
T' unbind the charms that in slight fables lie,
And teach that truth is purest poesy.

...

poem by Abraham Cowley
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Ode - So dear my Lucio is to me

So dear my Lucio is to me,
So well our minds and tempers blend,
That seasons may for ever flee,
And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair.

O Lycon! born when every Muse,
When every Grace, benignant smiled,
With all a parent's breast could choose
To bless her loved, her only child;
'Tis thine, so richly graced, to prove
More noble cares than cares of love.

Together we from early youth
Have trod the flowery tracks of time,
Together mused in search of truth,
O'er learned sage, or bard sublime;
And well thy cultured breast I know,
What wondrous treasure it can show!

Come, then, resume thy charming lyre,
And sing some patriot's worth sublime,
Whilst I in fields of soft desire
Consume my fair and fruitless prime;
Whose reed aspires but to display
The flame that burns me night and day.

O come! the Dryads of the woods
Shall daily soothe thy studious mind,
The blue-eyed nymphs of yonder floods
Shall meet and court thee to be kind;
And Fame sits listening for thy lays
To swell her trump with Lucio's praise.

Like me, the plover fondly tries
To lure the sportsman from her nest,
And fluttering on with anxious cries,
Too plainly shows her tortured breast;
O let him, conscious of her care,
Pity her pains, and learn to spare.

poem by William Shenstone
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A Letter to Her Husband

Absent upon Public Employment

My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more,
My joy, my magazine, of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever,
If but a neck, soon should we be together.
I, like the Earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac,
Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such fridged colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father's face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mercury And The Elephant

As Merc'ry travell'd thro' a Wood,
(Whose Errands are more Fleet than Good)
An Elephant before him lay,
That much encumber'd had the Way:
The Messenger, who's still in haste,
Wou'd fain have bow'd, and so have past;
When up arose th' unweildy Brute,
And wou'd repeat a late Dispute,

In which (he said) he'd gain'd the Prize
From a wild Boar of monstrous Size:
But Fame (quoth he) with all her Tongues,
Who Lawyers, Ladies, Soldiers wrongs,
Has, to my Disadvantage, told
An Action throughly Bright and Bold;
Has said, that I foul Play had us'd,
And with my Weight th' Opposer bruis'd;
Had laid my Trunk about his Brawn,
Before his Tushes cou'd be drawn;
Had stunn'd him with a hideous Roar,
And twenty-thousand Scandals more:
But I defy the Talk of Men,
Or Voice of Brutes in ev'ry Den;
Th' impartial Skies are all my Care,
And how it stands Recorded there.
Amongst you Gods, pray, What is thought?
Quoth Mercury–Then have you Fought!

Solicitous thus shou'd I be
For what's said of my Verse and Me;

Or shou'd my Friends Excuses frame,
And beg the Criticks not to blame
(Since from a Female Hand it came)
Defects in Judgment, or in Wit;
They'd but reply - Then has she Writ!

Our Vanity we more betray,
In asking what the World will say,
Than if, in trivial Things like these,
We wait on the Event with ease;
Nor make long Prefaces, to show
What Men are not concern'd to know:
For still untouch'd how we succeed,
'Tis for themselves, not us, they Read;
Whilst that proceeding to requite,
We own (who in the Muse delight)
'Tis for our Selves, not them, we Write.
Betray'd by Solitude to try
Amusements, which the Prosp'rous fly;

And only to the Press repair,
To fix our scatter'd Papers there;
Tho' whilst our Labours are preserv'd,
The Printers may, indeed, be starv'd.

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hope arising from retrospection

Alas! my fond enquiring soul,
Doom'd in suspence to mourn;
Now let thy moments calmly roll,
Now let thy peace return.

Why should'st thou let a doubt disturb
Thy hopes, which daily rise,
And urge thee on to trust his word
Who built and rules the skies?

Look back thro' what intricate ways
He led thy unfriended feet;
Oft mourning in the cheerless maze,
He ne'er forsook thee yet.

When thunder from heav'n's arch did break,
And cleft the sinking ship,
His mercy snatch'd thee from the wreck,
And from the rolling deep:

And when Disease, with threat'ning mein,
Aim'd at thy trembling heart,
Again his mercy interven'd,
And turn'd aside the dart.

When Murder sent her hopeless cries
More dreadful thro' the gloom,
And kindling flames did round thee rise,
Deep harvests to consume;

Who was it led thee thro' the wood
And o'er th' ensanguin'd plain,
Unseen by ambush'd sons of blood,
Who track'd thy steps in vain?

'Twas pitying heav'n that check'd my tears,
And bade my infants play,
To give an opiate to my fears,
And cheer the lonely way.

And in the doubly dreadful night
When my Abella died,
When horror struck---detesting light!
I sunk down by her side:

When wing'd for flight my spirit stood,
With this fond thought beguil'd,
To lead my charmer to her God,
And there to claim my child;

Again his mercy o'er my breast
Effus'd the breath of peace;
Subsiding passions sunk to rest,
He bade the tempest cease.

Oh! let me ever, ever praise
Such undeserved care;
Tho' languid may appear my lays,
At least they are sincere.

I never will distrust thee more,
Tho' hell should aim her dart;
Innoxious is infernal pow'r,
If thou Protector art.

It is my joy that thou art God,
Eternal, and supreme---
Rise Nature! hail the power aloud,
From whom creation came.

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ascension Of Thoughts

That quiet air of solitude that seeks a willing mate,
That loneliness so harsh so rude can seal a persons fate,
Belief that life has better days has yet to show it's face,
So lost inside that sullen haze that brought you to this place.

Of things that people care about and harbor to their breast
A fool would dare to scream and shout then judge you with the rest
Alas the heart has limitations weakened by a troubled mind
Making more of situations than the facts would ever find

Strength has many different guises, all that glitters isn't gold
Staying put leaves no surprises living life as if on hold
Raise the bar and make a break from ghosts you've been forever haunted
Life will give if you can live those dreams that you have always wanted.

poem by Dave James
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Contemplation

Indulg'd by ev'ry active thought
When upwards they wou'd fly
Nor can Ambition be a fault
If plac'd above the sky
When humbld first we meekly crave
Remission for the past
We from the fore-tasts which we have
May guesse our Joys at last

Then let my Contemplation soar
And Heav'n my Subject be
Though low on Earth in nature poor
Some prospect we may see

And now that scene before me stands
And large Possessions there
Where none usurps anothers Lands {1}
And Theives we do not fear

All Care all Sorrow all Surprise
Fly from that World of peace
Where tears are wip'd from clouded Eyes
And Sighs for ever cease

Decay or Sicknesse find no place
In that untainted Air
But still th'incorruptable Face {2}
Shall as at first be fair

Agility in pace or flight
The Blessed shall convey
Where e're the Lamb more fair then light {3}
Shall lead the radiant way

Whilst Praises in Seraphick Sounds {4}
The blisful road shall trace
And musick seem to passe the bounds
Even of unbounded Space

Such balmy Odours shall disperse
As from the Bridegroom's pores {5}
The holy Canticles rehearse {6}
Fell on the Bolts and Doors

When to his Spouse the well belov'd
More white then Jordans Flocks {7}
Spake whilest her hand the Barrs remov'd
And dew-drops fill'd his locks

The Crosse shall there triumphant rise
And ev'ry Eye shall scan
That promis'd Ensign in the skies
Close by the Son of Man

With Christ there Charles's Crown shall meet {8}
Which Martirdom adorns
And prostrate lye beneath his feet
My Coronet of Thorns

The Lord to whom my life is joyn'd
For Conscience here opprest
Shall there full retribution find
And none his Claimes molest

Hypocrisy and feign'd pretence
To cover foul Dissigns
Shall blusshing fly as far from thence
As to the deepest Mines

We there shall know the use of Foes
Whom here we have forgiven
When we shall thank them for those woes
Which pav'd our way to Heaven

There all good things that we have mist
With Int'rest shall return
Whilst those who have each wish possest
Shall for that fullnesse mourn

There Coventry of Tufton's Line {9}
For piety renown'd
Shall in transcending virtues Shine
And Equally be Crown'd

Around her shall the Chains be spread
Of Captives she has freed
And ev'ry Mouth that she has fed
Shall testify the deed

Whilst Scools supplied to mend our youth
Shall on the List be shown
A Daughter and a Mother both
In Her the Church shall own

The Gospell crosse the seas rehearst
By her diffusive aid
And fifty-thousand pounds dispers'd
Shall there be largely paid

My Heart by her supporting Love
In all its Cares upheld
For that, to see her Crown improve
With transports shall be fill'd

From Gratitude what graces flow
What endlesse pleasures spring
From Prayers whilst we remain below
Above whilst Praise we Sing

And Mammon wert thou well employ'd {10}
What Mansions might be wonne
Whilst Woolsey's Pallace lyes destroy'd {11}
And Marlbrough's is not done. {12}

Whilst to this Heav'n my Soul Aspires
All Suff'rings here are light
He travells pleas'd who but desires
A Sweet Repose at Night.

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Testimony

I said of laughter: it is vain.
Of mirth I said: what profits it?
Therefore I found a book, and writ
Therein how ease and also pain,
How health and sickness, every one
Is vanity beneath the sun.

Man walks in a vain shadow; he
Disquieteth himself in vain.
The things that were shall be again;
The rivers do not fill the sea,
But turn back to their secret source;
The winds too turn upon their course.

Our treasures moth and rust corrupt,
Or thieves break through and steal, or they
Make themselves wings and fly away.
One man made merry as he supped,
Nor guessed how when that night grew dim,
His soul would be required of him.

We build our houses on the sand
Comely withoutside and within;
But when the winds and rains begin
To beat on them, they cannot stand;
They perish, quickly overthrown,
Loose from the very basement stone.

All things are vanity, I said:
Yea vanity of vanities.
The rich man dies; and the poor dies:
The worm feeds sweetly on the dead.
Whate'er thou lackest, keep this trust:
All in the end shall have but dust.

The one inheritance, which best
And worst alike shall find and share:
The wicked cease from troubling there,
And there the weary are at rest;
There all the wisdom of the wise
Is vanity of vanities.

Man flourishes as a green leaf,
And as a leaf doth pass away;
Or as a shade that cannot stay,
And leaves no track, his course is brief:
Yet doth man hope and fear and plan
Till he is dead:—oh foolish man!

Our eyes cannot be satisfied
With seeing, nor our ears be filled
With hearing: yet we plant and build
And buy and make our borders wide;
We gather wealth, we gather care,
But know not who shall be our heir.

Why should we hasten to arise
So early, and so late take rest?
Our labour is not good; our best
Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies:
Verily, we sow wind; and we
Shall reap the whirlwind, verily.

He who hath little shall not lack;
He who hath plenty shall decay:
Our fathers went; we pass away;
Our children follow on our track:
So generations fail, and so
They are renewed, and come and go.

The earth is fattened with our dead;
She swallows more and doth not cease:
Therefore her wine and oil increase
And her sheaves are not numbered;
Therefore her plants are green, and all
Her pleasant trees lusty and tall.

Therefore the maidens cease to sing,
And the young men are very sad;
Therefore the sowing is not glad,
And mournful is the harvesting.
Of high and low, of great and small,
Vanity is the lot of all.

A King dwelt in Jerusalem;
He was the wisest man on earth;
He had all riches from his birth,
And pleasures till he tired of them;
Then, having tested all things, he
Witnessed that all are vanity.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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