Occasional Address
Written for the benefit of a distressed Player, detained
at Brighthelmstone for Debt, November 1792.
WHEN in a thousand swarms, the summer o'er,
The birds of passage quit our English shore,
By various routs the feather'd myriad moves;
The Becca-Fica seeks Italian groves,
No more a Wheat-ear ; while the soaring files
Of sea-fowl gather round the Hebrid isles.
But if by bird-lime touch'd, unplumed, confined,
Some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind,
Driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves
On his unshelter'd head the tempest raves,
While drooping round, redoubling every pain,
His mate and nestlings ask his help in vain.
So we, the buskin and the sock who wear,
And 'strut and fret,' our little season here,
Dismiss'd at length, as fortune bids divide--
Some (lucky rogues!) sit down on Thames's side;
Others to Liffy's western banks proceed,
And some--driven far a-field, across the Tweed:
But, pinion'd here, alas! I cannot fly:
The hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler I!
Unless the healing pity you bestow,
Shall imp my shatter'd wings, and let me go.
Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led
To seek in scenic art precarious bread,
While still, through wild vicissitudes afloat,
A hero now, and now a Sans Culotte!
That eleemosynary bread he gains
Mingling, with real distresses, mimic pains.
See in our group, a pale, lank Falstaff stare!
Much needs he stuffing:--while young Ammon there
Rehearses--in a garret--ten feet square!
And as his soft Statira sighs consent,
Roxana comes not--but a dun for rent!
Here shiv'ring Edgar, in his blanket roll'd,
Exclaims--with too much reason, 'Tom's a-cold! '
And vainly tries his sorrows to divert,
While Goneril or Regan --wash his shirt!
Lo! fresh from Calais, Edward, mighty king!
Revolves--a mutton chop upon a string!
And Hotspur, plucking 'honour from the moon,'
Feeds a sick infant with a pewter spoon!
More bless'd the fisher, who undaunted braves
In his small bark, the impetuous winds and waves;
For though he plough the sea when others sleep,
He draws, like Glendower, spirits from the deep.
And while the storm howls round, amidst his trouble,
Bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble.
Pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissarde ,
Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard
Smiles when she sees his little canvass handing,
And clasps her dripping lover on his landing.
More bless'd the peasant , who, with nervous toil
Hews the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil:
Weary, indeed, he sees the evening come,
But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home,
Receives its rustic inmate; then are his,
Secure repose, and dear domestic bliss.
The orchard's blushing fruit, the garden's store,
The pendant hop, that mantles round the door,
Are his:--and while cheerful faggots burn,
'His lisping children hail their site's return.'
But wandering Players, 'unhousel'd, unanneal'd,'
And unappointed, scour life's common field,
A flying squadron!--disappointments cross 'em,
And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horsham.
Oh! ye, whose timely bounty deigns to shed
Compassion's balm upon my luckless head,
Benevolence, with warm and glowing breast,
And soft, celestial mercy, doubly bless'd!
Smile on the generous act!--where means are given,
To aid the wretched--is to merit heaven.
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Female Exile
Written at Brighthelmstone in Nov. 1792.
NOVEMBER'S chill blast on the rough beach is howling,
The surge breaks afar, and then foams to the shore,
Dark clouds o'er the sea gather heavy and scowling,
And the white cliffs re-echo the wild wintry roar.
Beneath that chalk rock, a fair stranger reclining,
Has found on damp sea-weed a cold lonely seat;
Her eyes fill'd with tears, and her heart with repining,
She starts at the billows that burst at her feet.
There, day after day, with an anxious heart heaving,
She watches the waves where they mingle with air;
For the sail which, alas! all her fond hopes deceiving,
May bring only tidings to add to her care.
Loose stream to wild winds those fair flowing tresses,
Once woven with garlands of gay summer flowers;
Her dress unregarded, bespeaks her distresses,
And beauty is blighted by grief's heavy hours.
Her innocent children, unconscious of sorrow,
To seek the gloss'd shell, or the crimson weed stray;
Amused with the present, they heed not to-morrow,
Nor think of the storm that is gathering to-day.
The gilt, fairy ship, with its ribbon sail spreading,
They launch on the salt pool the tide left behind;
Ah! victims--for whom their sad mother is dreading
The multiplied miseries that wait on mankind!
To fair fortune born, she beholds them with anguish,
Now wanderers with her on a once hostile soil,
Perhaps doom'd for life in chill penury to languish,
Or abject dependence, or soul-crushing toil.
But the sea-boat, her hopes and her terrors renewing,
O'er the dim grey horizon now faintly appears;
She flies to the quay, dreading tidings of ruin,
All breathless with haste, half expiring with fears.
Poor mourner!--I would that my fortune had left me
The means to alleviate the woes I deplore;
But like thine my hard fate has of affluence bereft me,
I can warm the cold heart of the wretched no more!
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Get Around
Round round get around
I get around
Yeah
Get around round round I get around
I get around
Get around round round I get around
From town to town
Get around round round I get around
Im a real cool head
Get around round round I get around
Im makin real good bread
Im gettin bugged driving up and down the same old strip
I gotta finda new place where the kids are hip
My buddies and me are getting real well known
Yeah, the bad guys know us and they leave us alone
I get around
Get around round round I get around
From town to town
Get around round round I get around
Im a real cool head
Get around round round I get around
Im makin real good bread
Get around round round I get around
I get around
Round
Get around round round oooo
Wah wa ooo
Wah wa ooo
Wah wa ooo
We always take my car cause its never been beat
And weve never missed yet with the girls we meet
None of the guys go steady cause it wouldnt be right
To leave their best girl home now on saturday night
I get around
Get around round round I get around
From town to town
Get around round round I get around
Im a real cool head
Get around round round I get around
Im makin real good bread
Get around round round I get around
I get around
Round
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah
Round round get around
I get around
Yeah
Get around round round I get around
Get around round round I get around
Wah wa ooo
Get around round round I get around
Oooo ooo ooo
Get around round round I get around
Ahh ooo ooo
Get around round round I get around
Ahh ooo ooo
Get around round round I get around
Ahh ooo ooo
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
To My Mother
IF e'er for human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e'er my heart has learn'd to know
The gen'rous wish or pray'r;
Who sow'd the germ, with tender hand?
Who mark'd its infant-leaves expand?
My mother's fost'ring care.
And if one flow'r of charms refin'd
May grace the garden of my mind;
'Twas she who nurs'd it there:
She lov'd to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish ev'ry weed and thorn,
That oft oppos'd her toil!
And, oh! if e'er I've sigh'd to claim
The palm, the living palm of fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e'er I've wish'd the glitt'ring stores,
That fortune on her fav'rite pours;
'Twas but, that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round thee, with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!
Yet not that splendor, pomp, and pow'r,
Might then irradiate ev'ry hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfin'd;
And fall, as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light,
Than all the diamond's crystal rays,
Than all the emerald's lucid blaze;
And joys of heav'n would thrill thy heart,
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!
Then, oh! may heav'n, that loves to bless,
Bestow the pow'r to cheer distress;
Make thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom'd to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with lib'ral hand dispense,
The sunshine of beneficence!
But, ah! if fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life's remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Eolian lyre,
Complains with soft, entrancing number,
When the loud storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E'en then, shall teach thee to rejoice;
E'en then, shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow's tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune's gales destroy,
The frail, mimosa-buds of hope and joy!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To The Hummingbird
I cannot heal thy green gold breast,
Where deep those cruel teeth have prest,
Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,
And seek thy mate,
Who sits alone within thy nest,
Nor sees thy fate.
No more with him in summer hours
Thou'lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy flowers,
To feed thy young;
Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
Thy nest high hung.
No more thou'lt know a mother's care
Thy honied spoils at eve to share,
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare
With upward spring,
Their path through fields of sunny air,
On new fledged wing.
For thy return in vain shall wait
Thy tender young, thy fond fond mate,
Till night's last stars beam forth full late
On their sad eyes;
Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,
Unheard thy cries!
poem by Jones Very
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Medley: I Get Around/little Deuce Coupe
Round round get around
I get around, yes
(*laughter* *clap*)
Get around round round, I get around
I get a--
Get around round round, I get around
From town to town
Get around round round, I get around
(woo!)
Im a real cool head
Get around round round, I get around
Im making real good bread
Get around round round, I get a square
(ow!)
Im getting awfully mad driving down the street
(ow!)
I just dont want to be bugged sitting next to my sweets
(*laughter*)
Bom bom bom ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta
The other guys are pretty tough
So those other gats over there better not get tough
I get around
Get around round round, I get around
From town to town
Get around round round, I get around
Im a real cool head
(fake it, come on, mike! artistry!)
Im makin real good bread
Get around round round, I get a square
I get around
Round
Get around, round round
(rock out, carl!)
(anybody...)
(come on, baby!)
([...])
We always take my car although its a heap
And we never get turned down by the chicks we pick up on
Not much...
None of the guys go steady cos it wouldnt be right guard
To leave their best girls home on a saturday night
I get around
Get around round round, I get around
From town to town
Get around round round, I get around
Im a real cool head
Get around round round, I get around
Im making real good bread
Get around round round, I get around
I get around round woo ooooo oooo ooo ooo ooo oooo
Round round get around, I get around
Square
Get around round round, I get a square
Get around round round, I get around
Get around round round, I get around
(dont stop!)
Get around round round, I get around
Boop boop boop boop
Get around round round, I get around
I get around
(oh yeah!)
(oh, that was really bad.)
(lets do little deuce coupe while [...]. real fast, obviously.)
(Ive got it, brian. here, bruce, do your famous [...].)
(oh.)
(bom bom.)
(like this.)
(hey, do the--)
(oh--)
Well Im not braggin, babe, so dont put me down
Well, Ive got the cutest little piece in town
Well, Im not braggin, babe, oh yeah
([...] carl [...])
(we lost it.)
Shes my little deuce coupe
(hey, carl.)
You dont know what I got
Talk to me, baby
Talk to me, baby
Well Im not braggin, babe, so dont put me down
But Ive got the fastest set of wheels in town
When something comes up to me he dont even try
cos if I had a set of wings, man, I know she could fly
Hey
My little deuce coupe
You dont know what i--
Little deuce coupe
Yeah
You dont know what I got
Shes got a competition clutch with the four on the floor
And she purrs like a kitten (*laugh*) till the lake pipes roar
Ah, bom bom bom bom
And if that aint enough to make you flip your lid
Theres one more thing: I got the pink slip daddy
(*laughter*)
Oh yeah
Da da dom da da dom ba da
(oh, lets do luau!)
(talk to me, baby!)
She comes on like a rose, da da dap
(do the stroll!)
Shes my little deuce coupe
You dont know what I got
(*laughter*)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Flight To Nature
SICK of the crowd, the toil, the strife,
Sweet Nature, how I turn to thee,
Seeking for renovated life,
By brawling brook and shady tree!
I knew thy rocks had spells of old,
To soothe the wanderer's woe to calm,
And in thy waters, clear and cold,
My fev'rish brow would seek for balm.
I've bent beneath thy ancient oak,
And sought for slumber in its shade,
And, as the clouds above me broke,
I dream'd to find the boon I pray'd;
For light--a blessed light--was given,
Wide streaming round me from above,
And in the deep, deep vaults of heaven,
There shone, methought, a look of love.
And, through the long, long summer hours,
When every bird had won its wing,
How sweet to think, amidst thy flowers,
That youth might yet renew its spring;--
That sacred season of the heart,
When every pulse with hope is strong,
And, still untaught by selfish art,
Truth fears no guile, and love no wrong.
And who, but nature's self, could yield
The blessing in the prayer I made,
Throned in her realm of wood and field,
Of rocky realm and haunted shade?
Who, but that magic queen, whose sway
Drives winter from his path of strife,
Whilst all her thousand fingers play,
With bud and bird, in games of life!
With these a kindred life I ask,--
Not wealth that mortals vainly seek;
But, in heaven's sunshine let me bask,
My heart as glowing as my cheek;--
An idle heart, that would not heed
That chiding voice, when duty comes,
To drag the soul, but freshly freed,
Back to cold toils and weary glooms.
No lure she finds in mortal schemes,
Which wiser fancies still reprove,--
Far happier in her woodland dreams,
With one sweet teacher, taught by love!
Thou, Nature, that magician be,
Restore each dream that taught the boy,
That warm'd his hope, that made him free,
While wisdom took the shape of joy;
And I will bless thee with a song,
As fond as hers, that idle bird,
That sings above me all day long,
As if she knew I watch'd and heard.
poem by William Gilmore Simms
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Descriptive Ode
Supposed to have been written under the Ruins of
Rufus's Castle, among the remains of the ancient
Church on the Isle of Portland.
CHAOTIC pile of barren stone,
That Nature's hurrying hand has thrown,
Half finish'd, from the troubled waves;
On whose rude brow the rifted tower
Has frown'd, through many a stormy hour,
On this drear site of tempest-beaten graves.
Sure Desolation loves to shroud
His giant form within the cloud
That hovers round thy rugged head;
And as through broken vaults beneath,
The future storms low-muttering breathe,
Hears the complaining voices of the dead.
Here marks the fiend with eager eyes,
Far out at sea the fogs arise
That dimly shade the beacon'd strand,
And listens the portentous roar
Of sullen waves, as on the shore,
Monotonous, they burst and tell the storm at hand.
Northward the demon's eyes are cast
O'er yonder bare and sterile waste,
Where, born to hew and heave the block,
Man, lost in ignorance and toil,
Becomes associate to the soil,
And his heart hardens like his native rock.
On the bleak hills, with flint o'erspread,
No blossoms rear the purple head;
No shrub perfumes the zephyrs' breath,
But o'er the cold and cheerless down
Grim desolation seems to frown,
Blasting the ungrateful soil with partial death.
Here the scathed trees with leaves half-dress'd,
Shade no soft songster's secret nest,
Whose spring-notes soothe the pensive ear;
But high the croaking cormorant flies,
And mews and hawks with clamorous cries
Tire the lone echoes of these caverns drear.
Perchance among the ruins grey
Some widow'd mourner loves to stray,
Marking the melancholy main
Where once, afar she could discern
O'er the white waves his sail return
Who never, never now, returns again!
On these lone tombs, by storms up-torn,
The hopeless wretch may lingering mourn,
Till from the ocean, rising red,
The misty moon with lurid ray
Lights her, reluctant, on her way,
To steep in tears her solitary bed.
Hence the dire spirit oft surveys
The ship, that to the western bays
With favouring gales pursues its course;
Then calls the vapour dark that blinds
The pilot,--calls the felon winds
That heave the billows with resistless force.
Commixing with the blotted skies,
High and more high the wild waves rise,
Till, as impetuous torrents urge,
Driven on yon fatal bank accursed
The vessel's massy timbers burst,
And the crew sinks beneath the infuriate surge.
There find the weak an early grave,
While youthful strength the whelming wave
Repels; and labouring for the land,
With shorten'd breath and upturn'd eyes,
Sees the rough shore above him rise,
Nor dreams that rapine meets him on the strand.
And are there then in human form
Monsters more savage than the storm,
Who from the gasping sufferer tear
The dripping weed?--who dare to reap
The inhuman harvest of the deep,
From half-drown'd victims whom the tempests spare?
Ah, yes! by avarice once possess'd,
No pity moves the rustic breast;
Callous he proves--as those who haply wait
Till I (a pilgrim weary worn)
To my own native land return,
With legal toils to drag me to my fate!
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Autumn Reverie
Alas! Beautiful Summer now hath fled,
And the face of Nature doth seem dead,
And the leaves are withered, and falling off the trees,
By the nipping and chilling autumnal breeze.
The pleasures of the little birds are all fled,
And with the cold many of them will be found dead,
Because the leaves of the trees are scattered in the blast,
And makes the feathered creatures feel downcast.
Because there are no leaves on the trees to shield them from the storm
On a windy, and rainy, cloudy morn;
Which makes their little hearts throb with pain,
By the chilling blast and the pitiless rain.
But still they are more contented than the children of God,
As long as they can pick up a worm from the sod,
Or anything they can get to eat,
Just, for instance, a stale crust of bread or a grain of wheat.
Oh! Think of the little birds in the time of the snow,
Also of the little street waifs, that are driven to and fro,
And trembling in the cold blast, and chilled to the bone,
For the want of food and clothing, and a warm home.
Besides think of the sorrows of the wandering poor,
That are wandering in the cold blast from door to door;
And begging, for Heaven's sake, a crust of bread,
And alas! Not knowing where to lay their head.
While the rich are well fed and covered from the cold,
While the poor are starving, both young and old;
Alas! It is the case in this boasted Christian land,
Where as the rich are told to be kind to the poor, is God's command.
Oh! Think of the working man when he's no work to do,
Who's got a wife and family, perhaps four or two,
And the father searching for work, and no work can be had,
The thought, I'm sure, 'tis enough to drive the poor man mad.
Because for his wife and family he must feel,
And perhaps the thought thereof will cause him to steal
Bread for his family, that are starving at home,
While the thought thereof makes him sigh heavily and groan.
Alas! The pangs of hunger are very hard to hide,
And few people can their temper control,
Or become reconciled to their fate,
Especially when they cannot find anything to eat.
Oh! Think of the struggles of the poor to make a living,
Because the rich unto them seldom are giving;
Wereas they are told he that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord,
But alas! they rather incline their money to hoard.
Then theres the little news-vendors in the street,
Running about perhaps with bare feet;
And if the rich chance to see such creatures in the street,
In general they make a sudden retreat.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An American Tale
"Ah! pity all the pangs I feel,
If pity e'er ye knew;--
An aged father's wounds to heal,
Through scenes of death I flew.
"Perhaps my hast'ning steps are vain,
Perhaps the warrior dies!--
Yet let me soothe each parting pain--
Yet lead me where he lies."
Thus to the list'ning band she calls,
Nor fruitless her desire,
They lead her, panting, to the walls
That hold her captive sire.
"And is a daughter come to bless
These aged eyes once more?
Thy father's pains will now be less--
His pains will now be o'er!"
"My father! by this waning lamp
Thy form I faintly trace:--
Yet sure thy brow is cold and damp,
And pale thy honour'd face!
"In vain thy wretched child is come,
She comes too late to save!
And only now can share thy doom,
And share thy peaceful grave!"
Soft, as amid the lunar beams
The falling shadows bend,
Upon the bosom of the streams,
So soft her tears descend.
"Those tears a father ill can bear,
He lives, my child, for thee!
A gentle youth, with pitying care,
Has lent his aid to me.
"Born in the western world, his hand
Maintains its hostile cause,
And fierce against Britannia's band
His erring sword he draws;
"Yet feels the captive Briton's woe;
For his ennobled mind
Forgets the name of Britain's foe,
In love of human kind!
"Yet know, my child, a dearer tie
Has link'd his heart to mine:
He mourns with Friendship's holy sigh,
The youth belov'd of thine!
"But hark! his welcome feet are near--
Thy rising grief suppress:
By darkness veil'd, he hastens here
To comfort and to bless."
"Stranger! for that dear father's sake,"
She cried, in accents mild,
"Who lives by thy kind pity, take
The blessings of his child!
"O, if in heaven, my EDWARD'S breast
This deed of mercy knew,
That gives my tortur'd bosom rest,
He sure would bless thee too!
"Ah, tell me where my lover fell?
The fatal scene recall;
His last, dear accents, stranger, tell,
O, haste and tell me all!
"Say, if he gave to love the sigh,
That set his spirit free?
Say, did he raise his closing eye,
As if it sought for me?"
"Ask not," her father cried, "to know
What, known, were added pain;
Nor think, my child, the tale of woe
Thy softness can sustain."
"Though every joy with EDWARD fled,
When EDWARD'S friend is near
It soothes my breaking heart," she said,
"To tell those joys were dear.
"The western ocean roll'd in vain
Its parting waves between,
My EDWARD brav'd the dang'rous main,
And bless'd our native scene.
"Soft Isis heard his artless tale,
Ah, stream for ever dear!
Whose waters, as they pass'd the vale,
Receiv'd a lover's tear.
"How could a heart that virtue lov'd,
(And sure that heart is mine)
Lamented youth! behold unmov'd,
The virtues that were thine?
"Calm, as the surface of the lake,
When all the winds are still;
Mild, as the beams of morning break,
When first they light the hill;
"So calm was his unruffled soul,
Where no rude passion strove;
So mild his soothing accents stole,
Upon the ear of love.
"Where are the dear illusions fled
Which sooth'd my former hours?
Where is the path that fancy spread,
Ah, vainly spread with flowers?
"I heard the battle's fearful sounds,
They seem'd my lover's knell--
I heard that, pierc'd with ghastly wounds,
My vent'rous lover fell!--
"My sorrows shall with life endure,
For he I lov'd is gone;
But something tells my heart, that sure
My life will not be long."
"My panting soul can bear no more,"
The youth impatient cried;
" 'Tis EDWARD bids thy griefs be o'er,
My love! my destin'd bride!
"The life which Heav'n preserv'd, how blest,
How fondly priz'd by me!
Since dear to my AMELIA'S breast,
Since valued still by thee!
"My father saw my constant pain
When thee I left behind,
Nor longer will his power restrain
The ties my soul would bind.
"And soon thy honor'd sire shall cease
The captive's lot to bear;
And we, my love, will soothe to peace
His griefs, with filial care.
"Then come for ever to my soul!
AMELIA come, and prove
How calm our blissful years will roll
Along, a life of love!"
poem by Helen Maria Williams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Exile's Death
Of what does this poor exile dream?
His garden plot, his dewy mead,
Perchance his tools, perchance his team,—
But ever of murdered France indeed;
Her memory makes his sad heart bleed.
While those that slew her clutch their pay,
The exile pleads with bitter cry:
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
The workman sees his workshop still,
And the poor peasant his loved cot;
Sweet homely flowers on the window-sill,
Or the bright hearth (when flowers bloom not)
Smiling on all things unforgot,—
E'en flickering on that nook whence aye
His grandmam's bed erst met his eye.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
In springtime swarm the honey bees;
Pert sparrows, quick heaven's gifts to share.
Blithe 'mong the barley crop one sees;
Sad little rogues, sans though, or care
They rob, as though they eagles were.
An old-world chateau, ivied, grey,
Crumbles the snug farmstead anigh.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
With file and mallet one can live
And keep one's wife and youngster's bright;
One works from faintest dawn till eve,
And in the toil finds true delight.
O sacred labour! life and light!
Our fathers toiled till, wearied, they
Resigned the tools with a smile or sigh.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
On holidays, the artisan,
His tools and cares all cheerily stowing,
Singing brave songs which bless or ban,
Cap jaunty on brow, blouse loosely flowing,
Forth to some festal haunt is going.
One eats a rabbit (so they say!)
And quaffs sour wine of Hungary.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
On Sundays aye the peasant strong
Sings out for Jeanne or Jacqueline:
'Now sweetheart, quickly come along,—
I warrant me, with ribbons fine,—
To dance on the hill till stars bright shine.'
The sabot hath a tricksy way
Of making music in July.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
Mournfully aye the exiles muse,
With spirit,—alas! nigh broken down.
Still they regard the darkling yews
That on green peaceful graves still frown.
One dreams of Germany, and one
Of poor bruised Poland, hapless prey,
And one of beauteous Italy.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
An exile, tired of hopeless pain,
Lay dying; calm, scarce sad, looked he.
'Why die?' I gently asked him then.
He answered, 'Is life sweet to thee?'
Then smiled, 'I shall at length be free!
Farewell, I die. O France, for aye
Thee shall the tyrant crucify?'
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
'I die because I see no longer
The fields, erewhile the world to me.
I die, because I hear no longer
The birds, my whole world's melody.
My soul is where I cannot be.
'Twixt four rough planks my body lay,
And bury me,—I care not, I!'
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.
poem by Victor Hugo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Botany Bay Eclogues 03 - Humphrey And William
(Time, Noon.)
HUMPHREY:
See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun
By this time half his daily race has run?
The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore
And hurries homeward with his fishy store.
Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil
To eat our dinner and to rest from toil!
WILLIAM:
Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows
A ready medicine for the sick-man's woes,
Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat
To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.
Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's shore
The weary labourer's morning work is o'er:
The woodman now rests from his measur'd stroke
Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak,
Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food,
There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.
To us no cooling streamlet winds its way,
No joys domestic crown for us the day,
The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear,
Toil all the day, and all the night despair.
HUMPHREY:
Ah William! labouring up the furrowed ground
I used to love the village clock's dull sound,
Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done,
And trudge it homewards when the clock went one.
'Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner!
Pshaw! curse this whining--let us fall to dinner.
WILLIAM:
I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot
Each joy domestic of my little cot.
For at this hour my wife with watchful care
Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare,
The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied
And my poor children prattled at my side.
Methinks I see the old oak table spread,
The clean white trencher and the good brown bread,
The cheese my daily food which Mary made,
For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade:
The jug of cyder,--cyder I could make,
And then the knives--I won 'em at the wake.
Another has them now! I toiling here
Look backward like a child and drop a tear.
HUMPHREY:
I love a dismal story, tell me thine,
Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine.
I too my friend can tell a piteous story
When I turn'd hero how I purchas'd glory.
WILLIAM:
But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known
The comforts of a little home thine own:
A home so snug, So chearful too as mine,
'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine;
For there King Charles's golden rules were seen,
And there--God bless 'em both--the King and Queen.
The pewter plates our garnish'd chimney grace
So nicely scour'd, you might have seen your face;
And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung
Well clean'd, altho' but seldom us'd, my gun.
Ah! that damn'd gun! I took it down one morn--
A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!
Our testy Squire too loved to save the breed,
So covey upon covey eat my seed.
I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim,
I fir'd, they fell, and--up the keeper came.
That cursed morning brought on my undoing,
I went to prison and my farm to ruin.
Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid,
No tomb-stone tells where her cold corpse is laid!
My children--my dear boys--
HUMPHREY:
Come--Grief is dry--
You to your dinner--to my story I.
To you my friend who happier days have known
And each calm comfort of a home your own,
This is bad living: I have spent my life
In hardest toil and unavailing strife,
And here (from forest ambush safe at least)
To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.
I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes
And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.
Each evening at return a meal I found
And, tho' my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.
One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest
Like a great bumkin in my Sunday's best;
A primrose posey in my hat I stuck
And to the revel went to try my luck.
From show to show, from booth to booth I stray,
See stare and wonder all the live-long day.
A Serjeant to the fair recruiting came
Skill'd in man-catching to beat up for game;
Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;--
Methinks even now the very scene I see!
The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store,
The old blind fiddler seated next the door,
The frothy tankard passing to and fro
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show;
The Serjeant eyed me well--the punch-bowl comes,
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums--
And now he gives a bumper to his Wench--
God save the King, and then--God damn the French.
Then tells the story of his last campaign.
How many wounded and how many slain,
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,
The English marching on, the French retreating,--
"Push on--push on my lads! they fly before ye,
"March on to riches, happiness and glory!"
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,
Then cried--"tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"
"Aye Humphrey!" says the Serjeant--"that's your name?
"'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!
"March to the field--knock out a Mounseer's brains
"And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.
"Come Humphrey come! thou art a lad of spirit!
"Rise to a halbert--as I did--by merit!
"Would'st thou believe it? even I was once
"As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;
"But Courage rais'd me to my rank. How now boy!
"Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-boy?
"A proper shaped young fellow! tall and straight!
"Why thou wert made for glory! five feet eight!
"The road to riches is the field of fight,--
"Didst ever see a guinea look so bright?
"Why regimentals Numps would give thee grace,
"A hat and feather would become that face;
"The girls would crowd around thee to be kist--
"Dost love a girl?" "Od Zounds!" I cried "I'll list!"
So past the night: anon the morning came,
And off I set a volunteer for fame.
"Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head,
"Stand easy!" so I did--till almost dead.
Oh how I long'd to tend the plough again
Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain,
When tir'd and sore amid the piteous throng
Hungry and cold and wet I limp'd along,
And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder,
Curs'd that ill hour when I became a soldier!
In town I found the hours more gayly pass
And Time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;
The girls were wonderous kind and wonderous fair,
They soon transferred me to the Doctor's care,
The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,
And he almost transferred me to the Devil.
'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story
Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness and glory.
At last discharg'd, to England's shores I came
Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame,
Found my fair friends and plunder'd as they bade me,
They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me and betray'd me.
Tried and condemn'd his Majesty transports me,
And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me,
So ends my dismal and heroic story
And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.
poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Loose Lucy
Loose lucy is my delight, she come runnin and we ball all night,
Round and round and round and round and round and round and round,
Dont take much to get me on the ground.
Shes my yo-yo, Im her string, listen to the birds on the hot wire sing,
Yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh, singing, thank you, for a real good time!
I got jumped coming home last night,
Shadow in the alley turned out all my lights,
Round and round and round and round and round and round and round,
Dont take much to get me on the ground.
Loose lucy, she was sore, says I know you dont want my love no more,
Yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh, singing, thank you, for a real good time!
Be-bop baby how can this be? I know you been out a cheating on me,
Round and round and round and round and round and round and round,
Dont take much to get the word around.
Cross my heart and hope to die, I was just hanging out with the other guys,
Yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh, singing, thank you, for a real good time!
Went back home with two black eyes, you know Ill love ya till the day I die,
Round and round and round and round and round and round and round,
Dont take much to get the word around.
I like your smile but I aint your type,
Dont shake the tree when its fruit aint ripe,
Yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh, singing yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh,
Singing yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh-yeh yeh,
Singing, thank you, for a real good time!
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ode to Health
Come, bright-eyed maid,
Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,
Haste, my fev'rish temples bind
With olive wreaths of em'rald hue
Steep'd in morn's ethereal dew,
Where in mild HELVETIA's shade,
Blushing summer round her flings
Warm gales and sunny show'rs that hang upon her wings.
I'll seek thee in ITALIA's bow'rs,
Where supine on beds of flow'rs
Melody's soul-touching throng
Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song:
Where blithe FANCY, queen of pleasure,
Pours each rich luxuriant treasure.
For thee I'll climb the breezy hill,
While the balmy dews distill
Odours from the budding thorn,
Drop'd from the lust'rous lids of morn;
Who, starting from her shad'wy bed,
Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's head.
There I'll press from herbs and flow'rs
Juices bless'd with opiate pow'rs,
Whose magic potency can heal
The throb of agonizing pain,
And thro' the purple swelling vein
With subtle influence steal:
Heav'n opes for thee its aromatic store
To bathe each languid gasping pore;
But where, O where, shall cherish'd sorrow find
The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind.
O, mem'ry! busy barb'rous foe,
At thy fell touch I wake to woe:
Alas! the flatt'ring dream is o'er,
From thee the bright illusions fly,
Thou bidst the glitt'ring phantoms die,
And hope, and youth, and fancy, charm no more.
No more for me the tip-toe SPRING
Drops flowrets from her infant wing;
For me in vain the wild thymes bloom
Thro' the forest flings perfume;
In vain I climb th'embroider'd hill
To breathe the clear autumnal air;
In vain I quaff the lucid rill
Since jocund HEALTH delights not there
To greet my heart:no more I view,
With sparkling eye, the silv'ry dew
Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose,
As low it droops its young and blushing head,
Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed:
No more I lave amidst the tide,
Or bound along the tufted grove,
Or o'er enamel'd meadows rove,
Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glide
Salubrious airs that waft the nymph repose.
Lightly o'er the yellow heath
Steals thy soft and fragrant breath,
Breath inhal'd from musky flow'rs
Newly bath'd in perfum'd show'rs.
See the rosy-finger'd morn
Opes her bright refulgent eye,
Hills and valleys to adorn,
While from her burning glance the scatter'd vapours fly.
Soon, ah soon! the painted scene,
The hill's blue top, the valley's green,
Midst clouds of snow, and whirlwinds drear,
Shall cold and comfortless appear:
The howling blast shall strip the plain,
And bid my pensive bosom learn,
Tho' NATURE's face shall smile again,
And, on the glowing breast of Spring
Creation all her gems shall fling,
YOUTH's April morn shall ne'er return.
Then come, Oh quickly come, Hygeian Maid!
Each throbbing pulse, each quiv'ring nerve pervade.
Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye,
Tint my pale visage with thy roseate die,
Bid my heart's current own a temp'rate glow,
And from its crimson source in tepid channels flow.
O HEALTH, celestial Nymph! without thy aid
Creation sickens in oblivions shade:
Along the drear and solitary gloom
We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb;
Youth, age, wealth, poverty alike agree
To live is anguish, when depriv'd of Thee.
To THEE indulgent Heav'n benignly gave
The touch to heal, the extacy to save.
The balmy incense of thy fost'ring breath
Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of Death,
Robs the grim Tyrant of his trembling prize,
Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.
Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest
To meet the rising son with od'rous breast,
Which glow'd with artless tints at noon-tide hour,
And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower,
With with'ring anguish mourn the parting Day,
Shrink to the Earth, and sorrowing fade away.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Peasant Of The Alps
FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.
WHERE cliffs arise by winter crown'd,
And through dark groves of pine around,
Down the deep chasms the snow-fed torrents foam,
Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms,
The Peasant of the Alps his cottage forms,
And builds his humble, happy home.
Unenvied is the rich domain,
That far beneath him on the plain
Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves;
More dear to him his hut with plantain thatch'd,
Where long his unambitious heart attach'd,
Finds all he wishes, all he loves.
There dwells the mistress of his heart,
And Love , who teaches every art,
Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care;
When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil,
He climbs the precipice with patient toil,
To plant her favourite flowerets there.
With native shrubs, a hardy race,
There the green myrtle finds a place,
And roses there the dewy leaves decline;
While from the crags abrupt, and tangled steeps,
With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps,
And, blushing, mingles with the vine.
His garden's simple produce stored,
Prepared for him by hands adored,
Is all the little luxury he knows.
And by the same dear hands are softly spread,
The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed,
Where in her arms he finds repose.
But absent from the calm abode,
Dark thunder gathers round his road,
Wild raves the wind, the arrowy lightnings flash,
Returning quick the murmuring rocks among,
His faint heart trembling as he winds along;
Alarm'd--he listens to the crash
Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe!
O'er his dear cot--a mass of snow,
By the storm sever'd from the cliff above,
Has fallen--and buried in its marble breast,
All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest,
His home, his happiness, his love!
Aghast the heart-struck mourner stands,
Glazed are his eyes--convulsed his hands,
O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath;
Crush'd by despair's intolerable weight,
Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height,
And headlong seeks relief in death.
A fate too similar is mine,
But I--in lingering pain repine,
And still my lost felicity deplore;
Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become
Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home,
And love and happiness are mine no more.
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
God Bless The Child
Written by Billie Holiday
Then that's got shall get,
them that's not shall loose,
so the Bible said and it still is news.
Mama may have, papa may have,
but God bless the child that's got his own,
that's got his own.
Well the strong gets more,
while the weak ones fade,
empty pokets don't ever make the grade.
Mama may have, papa may have,
but God bless the child that's got his own,
that's got his own.
Money, you've got lots of friends
crowding round your door
when it's gone and spending ends
they don't come round no more
Rich relations give
crusts of bread and such
you can help yourself
but don't take too much
Mama may have, papa may have,
but God bless the child that's got his own,
that's got his own.
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ring Wandering
Wandering,
Ring wandering,
Round and round,
Until I'm found
I search and
lose myself,
eventually fading
out
Swirling the milk
with a spoon,
sooner or later
it's all blended
in a single cup
I'm lost but
I'm here
The place I stand
Is it my identity?
Wandering,
Ring Wandering,
Round and round,
Until I'm found
poem by Invalid Files
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Im Not The One
Im not the one
That youll be shootin for
Im not the one
Whos coming back for more
(you know why)
Weve been through this so many a-times
(you know why)
Its never clear its pantomime
Goin round and round
(round and round)
cause you cant get on your feet
Goin round and round
(round and round)
Still takin all the heat
Goin round and round
(round and round)
Never lettin down
Im not the one
Whose memory you still keepin
Im not the one
Whos talkin in your sleep
(you know why)
I dont have to tell you twice
(you know why)
Knew you when you werent so nice
Goin round and round
(round and round)
cause you cant get on your feet
Goin round and round
(round and round)
Still takin all the heat
Goin round and round
(round and round)
Never touchin down
Im not the one
That youll be breakin in
And Im not the one
That youll be takin in
(you know why)
Tried and tried to crack the shell
(you know why)
When you fake its hard to tell
Goin round and round
(round and round)
cause you cant get on your feet
Goin round and round
(round and round)
Still takin all the heat
Goin round and round
(round and round)
cause you cant get on your feet
Goin round and round
(round and round)
Still takin all the heat
Goin round and round
(round and round)
(round and round)
Goin round and round
(round and round)
(round and round and round and round)
Goin round and round
(round and round)
(cause you cant get on your feet)
Goin (round and round)
(still takin all the heat)
(round and round)
(cause you cant get on your feet)
(round and round)
(still takin all the heat)
(round and round)
(cause you cant get on your feet)
(round and round)
(still takin all the heat)
[fade]
song performed by by Cars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
From Anacreon: 'Twas Now The Hour When Night Had Driven
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Boötes, only, seem'd to roll
His arctic charge around the pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,--
'What stranger breaks my blest repose?'
'Alas!' replies the wily child,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
'A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear?'
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:-
'I fain would know, my gentle host,'
He cried, 'if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse.'
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd:-
'My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?'
The Dead Child
ALL silent is the room,
There is no stir of breath,
Save mine, as in the gloom
I sit alone with Death.
Short life it had, the sweet,
Small babe here lying dead,
With tapers at its feet
And tapers at its head.
Dear little hands, too frail
Their grasp on life to hold;
Dear little mouth so pale,
So solemn, and so cold;
Small feet that nevermore
About the house shall run;
Thy little life is o’er!
Thy little journey done!
Sweet infant, dead too soon,
Thou shalt no more behold
The face of sun or moon,
Or starlight clear and cold;
Nor know, where thou art gone,
The mournfulness and mirth
We know who dwell upon
This sad, glad, mad, old earth.
The foolish hopes and fond
That cheat us to the last
Thou shalt not feel; beyond
All these things thou hast passed.
The struggles that upraise
The soul by slow degrees
To God, through weary days—
Thou hast no part in these.
And at thy childish play
Shall we, O little one,
No more behold thee? Nay,
No more beneath the sun.
Death’s sword may well be bared
’Gainst those grown old in strife,
But, ah! it might have spared
Thy little unlived life.
Why talk as in despair?
Just God, whose rod I kiss,
Did not make thee so fair
To end thy life at this.
There is some pleasant shore—
Far from His Heaven of Pride,
Where those strong souls who bore
His Cross in bliss abide—
Some place where feeble things,
For Life’s long war too weak,
Young birds with unfledged wings,
Buds nipped by storm-winds bleak,
Young lambs left all forlorn
Beneath a bitter sky,
Meek souls to sorrow born,
Find refuge when they die.
There day is one long dawn,
And from the cups of flowers
Light dew-filled clouds updrawn
Rain soft and perfumed showers.
Child Jesus walketh there
Amidst child-angel bands,
With smiling lips, and fair
White roses in His hands.
I kiss thee on the brow,
I kiss thee on the eyes—
Farewell! Thy home is now
The Children’s Paradise.
poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Storm
Come let us sing how when the Judge Supreme
Mounts the black tempest, arm'd with pointed flame,
What clust'ring horrors form his awful train:
Columns of smoke obscure the crystal skies,
The whirlwind howls, the livid lightning flies,
The bursting thunder sounds from shore to shore,
Earth trembles at the loud prolonged roar:
Down on the mountain forests rush the hail,
Th' aspiring pines fall headlong in the vale;
The riv'lets, swell'd with deluges of rain,
Rise o'er their banks and overflow the plain.
Th'affrighted peasant ope's his humble door,
While from his roof the clatt'ring torrents pour,
He sees his barns all red with conflagration,
His flocks borne off by sudden inundation;
His teeming fields, robb'd of their wavy pride,
By cat'rects tumbling down the mountain's side.
The shock suspends his pow'rs, he stands distrest,
To see his toil of years at once revers'd.
His tender mate, of philosophic foul,
Reproves his grief, and thus her accents roll:
'Exert thy fortitude, for grief is vain,
'Our bread by labour we can yet obtain:
'If riches were the test of virtue, then
'Pale Poverty were infamy to men;
'But since we find the virtuous often dwells
'In public odium, or in lonely cells,
'While those whose crimes blot Nature's aspect o'er,
'Who burn whole towns, and quench the flames in gore;
'In Pleasure's lap supine their moments spend,
'Yet wish annihilation when they end;
'The laws of retribution then require,
'Our joys begin with death---when their's expire;
'Reason allows no scepticism here,
'The good must hope, the bad have much to fear:
'And take a retrospect of thy past years,
'What placid scenes on every hand appears!
'To call the tears of black Remorse no crime,
'Can now suffuse thy cheek or cloud thy mind.
'Grieve not that Fate, with elemental strife
'Has torn away our hopes of mortal joys;
'To put our virtues but in exercise
'Are the misfortunes that arise in life.'
The rustic heard his sorrows all away,
Sweet Peace broke on him with a bright'ning ray;
Calmness and Hope their empire repossest,
Amidst the storm he feels serenely blest;
Amidst the wreck of all his earthly store
He feels more grateful than he did before.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!