Lines In The Travellers' Book At Orchomenus
In this book a traveller had written:
'Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim;
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name.'
BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING.
The modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse.
Related quotes
Poet And Peer
They asked the Bard of Ayr to dine;
The banquet hall was fit and fine,
With gracing it a Lord;
The poet came; his face was grim
To find the place reserved for him
Was at the butler's board.
So when the gentry called him in,
He entered with a knavish grin
And sipped a glass of wine;
But when they asked would he recite
Something of late he'd chanced to write
He ettled to decline.
Then with a sly, sardonic look
He opened up a little book
Containing many a gem;
And as they sat in raiment fine,
So smug and soused with rosy wine,
This verse he read to them.
'You see yon birkie caw'ed a Lord,
Who struts and stares an' a' that,
Though hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,
A man's a man for a' that.
He pointed at that portly Grace
Who glared with apoplectic face,
While others stared with gloom;
Then having paid them all he owed,
Burns, Bard of Homespun, smiled and strode
Superbly from the room.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Singer
Did you attend? He sang by grove ripe -
The bard of love, the singer of his mourning.
When fields were silent by the early morning,
To sad and simple sounds of a pipe
Did you attend?
Did you behold in dark of forest leaf
The bard of love, the singer of his sadness?
The trace of tears, the smile, the utter paleness,
The quiet look, full of eternal grief,
Did you behold?
Then did you sigh when hearing how cries
The bard of love, the singer of his dole?
When in the woods you saw the young man, sole,
And met the look of his extinguished eyes,
Then did you sigh?
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Enigma
The noblest name in Allegory's page,
The hand that traced inexorable rage;
A pleasing moralist whose page refined,
Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;
A tender poet of a foreign tongue,
(Indited in the language that he sung.)
A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page
At once the shame and glory of our age,
The prince of harmony and stirling sense,
The ancient dramatist of eminence,
The bard that paints imagination's powers,
And him whose song revives departed hours,
Once more an ancient tragic bard recall,
In boldness of design surpassing all.
These names when rightly read, a name [make] known
Which gathers all their glories in its own.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Rat-Catcher
I AM the bard known far and wide,
The travell'd rat-catcher beside;
A man most needful to this town,
So glorious through its old renown.
However many rats I see,
How many weasels there may be,
I cleanse the place from ev'ry one,
All needs must helter-skelter run.
Sometimes the bard so full of cheer
As a child-catcher will appear,
Who e'en the wildest captive brings,
Whene'er his golden tales he sings.
However proud each boy in heart,
However much the maidens start,
I bid the chords sweet music make,
And all must follow in my wake.
Sometimes the skillful bard ye view
In the form of maiden-catcher too;
For he no city enters e'er,
Without effecting wonders there.
However coy may be each maid,
However the women seem afraid,
Yet all will love-sick be ere long
To sound of magic lute and song.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
His Monument
Horace: Book III, Ode 30
"Exegi monumentum aere perennius---"
The monument that I have built is durable as brass,
And loftier than the Pyramids which mock the years that pass.
No blizzard can destroy it, nor furious rain corrode--
Remember, I'm the bard who built the first Horatian Ode.
I shall not altogether die; a part of me's immortal.
A part of me shall never pass the mortuary portal;
And when I die my fame shall stand the nitric test of time--
The fame of me of lowly birth, who built the lofty rhyme!
Ay, fame shall be my portion when no trace there is of me,
For I first madeÆolian songs the songs of Italy.
Accept I pray, Melpomene, my modest meed of praise,
And crowm my thinning, graying locks with wreathes of Delphic bays!
poem by Franklin P. Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Rich Bard
hey bard, i have read a piece
of your creation,
i am sorry but it does not
pass my taste.
and the rich bard answered,
hey dude, i am sorry too
but i am rich and popular
look at you, don't you
pity yourself
in anonymity?
and the dude answered,
i may not be rich and popular
and famous like you
but hey bard
i am honest and true.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Unsolicited Testimonial
They say Wendy Cope
Writes humorous verse
And whyever not?
She could do a lot worse
She could write clever poems
Intended to sound
Philosophically deep
Obscurely profound
Or pen tragic poems
Of love, loss and woe
Tearfully epic
Dreadfully slow
Or criticise men
Just for having a willy
For not being perfect
And sometimes quite silly
But dear Wendy Cope
Writes humorous verse
Which is quite a relief
It could be so much worse
poem by Pat Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Merry Bard
ZULEIKAH! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-wasted and wear
yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and
the hairs of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to Allah! I am a
merry bard.
There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise
be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a
merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming.
There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be
to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard.
The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul.
I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight.
Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cadland, Southampton River
If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave,
Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved
To pass delighted from her green abode,
And, seated on a summer bank, to sing
No earthly music; in a spot like this,
The bard might feign he heard her, as she dried
Her golden hair, yet dripping from the main,
In the slant sunbeam.
So the pensive bard
Might image, warmed by this enchanting scene,
The ideal form; but though such things are not,
He who has ever felt a thought refined;
He who has wandered on the sea of life,
Forming delightful visions of a home
Of beauty and repose; he who has loved,
With filial warmth his country, will not pass
Without a look of more than tenderness
On all the scene; from where the pensile birch
Bends on the bank, amid the clustered group
Of the dark hollies; to the woody shore
That steals diminished, to the distant spires
Of Hampton, crowning the long lucid wave.
White in the sun, beneath the forest-shade,
Full shines the frequent sail, like Vanity,
As she goes onward in her glittering trim,
Amid the glances of life's transient morn,
Calling on all to view her!
Vectis there,
That slopes its greensward to the lambent wave,
And shows through softest haze its woods and domes,
With gray St Catherine's creeping to the sky,
Seems like a modest maid, who charms the more
Concealing half her beauties.
To the East,
Proud, yet complacent, on its subject realm,
With masts innumerable thronged, and hulls
Seen indistinct, but formidable, mark
Albion's vast fleet, that, like the impatient storm,
Waits but the word to thunder and flash death
On him who dares approach to violate
The shores and living scenes that smile secure
Beneath its dragon-watch!
Long may they smile!
And long, majestic Albion (while the sound
From East to West, from Albis to the Po,
Of dark contention hurtles), may'st thou rest,
As calm and beautiful this sylvan scene
Looks on the refluent wave that steals below.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet: Birth of Doctor John Celes
Oh look, the eighth child, baby boy is born!
On Valentine’s Day of Christian parents;
And it is very early in the morn;
The babe is blue but princely full of sense.
And therefore he is baptized Celestine,
The second boy fills parents’ hearts with joy;
He’s John Celes, the Bard, who writes on sin,
Man, God and thinks great even as a boy!
Who after years becomes a doctor-bard,
And takes the literary world by surprise;
His Poetic venture is divine/hard;
Fast/great and voluminous in its size.
In thirty months, he is world’s Sonnet-King!
Through him, God has destined a greater thing.
9-26-2002
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Mr. Murray (Strahan, Tonson Lintot Of The Times)
Strahan, Tonson Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unedged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all - and sellest some--
My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,--
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?
Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine,
My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the 'Navy List,'
My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without 'the Board of Longitude,'
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray.
Venice, March 25, 1818.
Oh! My dear God
Oh! My dear God
You are my reverential Lord
You are ever with me, my Ward
For which heartfelt thanks transmits this bard!
For myself, I have not wanted this
For myself, I have not wanted that
You have always provided this and that
I am so very grateful for all that.
During pooja time when I stand before you
All the kindness you've shown, I view
For which my heart with emotion swells
As ring the pooja ‘s tinkling bells.
At the temple your magnificence, when I behold
My heart throbs with subtle thoughts untold
There before you when I humbly bow
Streams of tears from my eyes do flow.
Whilst expecting the birth of our first grandson delightfully
There fell a thunder-bolt—he was asphyxiated deeply
Oh God! I entreated you weeping with all my heart
And you came to our rescue and let not his life to part!
I remember that was the one occasion
When I implored you for my dear grandson
And for that -your munificence, truly great
I hold my heart's over flowing gratitude till date.
Oh! My dear God
You are my reverential Lord
You are ever with me, my Ward
For which heartfelt thanks transmits this bard!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Is modesty a virtue?
She is modest, who hides her beauty.
It is she who hides her defects too.
She is modest, who conceals her love.
It is she who buries her infidelity too.
01.05.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Desire To Know You
First World,
Second World,
A Third World call when a bard writes;
Flow with my mind and let us rule the world.
In my mind,
In my world,
With my views to teach many;
The desire to know you matters to me.
To appreciate it,
To love it,
A Third World call when a bard writes;
The hope to work with you.
Of a world full of questions and answers,
Of the love of the muse that muses;
To swim with an empty bowl at hand with,
The vision still in mind.
Together we live, together we can make it;
Two heads are better than one.
First World,
Second World,
Write like a writer and teach like a teacher;
Two heads are better than one.
Indoors and outdoors activities,
The comedy of one's life;
There are no distances in friendship.
Together we live, together we camn make it;
Like the actions of one's move.
To appreciate it and to love it,
To write it and to learn from it,
A world full of questions and answers;
The desire to know you matters to me.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Barack Hussein Obama II
Barack Obama in Berlin,
With words like a bard to put us in order;
But many minds will lay low to think.
Being one of his father's children among the four wives and,
A vision came to him to achieve the best of life with dreams;
Right from the beginning of things to fulfil his ambitions and,
As the right person to stand for the U.S Presidential race.
Care was given to him from every angle to push him up like,
Kenya where his father came from.
Barack Obama in Berlin,
With words like a bard to put us in order;
But many minds will lay low to think.
Here in Berlin with the advantage of his reputations and,
Using the opportunities in the U.S.A. like his father had;
Showing how great it is to share without racism and religion like,
Sunflowers in a sweet green field with the smell of an aroma:
Emitting with positive words to call us all together as one.
In the U.S.A. to reach out to the world with love and,
Now that he is running for the presidential seat.
Barack Obama in Berlin,
With words like a bard to put us in order;
But many minds will lay low to think.
Obama has made a name in this world so sweet,
Being rated among the best to bring us together;
Along the lines of war, hatred and peace like,
Masters of the act of flying to reach a place:
A memory of his visit will sit many down to think.
Barack Obama in Berlin,
With words like a bard to put us in order;
But many minds will lay low to think.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Epilogue to Agamemnon
Our bard, to modern epilogue a foe,
Thinks such mean mirth but deadens generous woe;
Dispels in idle air the moral sigh,
And wipes the tender tear from Pity's eye:
No more with social warmth the bosom burns;
But all the unfeeling selfish man returns.
Thus he began:—And you approved the strain;
Till the next couplet sunk to light and vain.
You check'd him there.—To you, to reason just,
He owns he triumph'd in your kind disgust.
Charm'd by your frown, by your displeasure graced,
He hails the rising virtue of your taste.
Wide will its influence spread as soon as known:
Truth, to be loved, needs only to be shown.
Confirm it, once, the fashion to be good:
(Since fashion leads the fool, and awes the rude)
No petulance shall wound the public ear;
No hand applaud what honour shuns to hear:
No painful blush the modest cheek shall stain;
The worthy breast shall heave with no disdain.
Chastised to decency, the British stage
Shall oft invite the fair, invite the sage:
Both shall attend well pleased, well pleased depart;
Or if they doom the verse, absolve the heart.
poem by James Thomson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On The Bust Of Helen By Canova
In this beloved marble view,
Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,
And Beauty and Canova can!
Beyond imagination's power,
Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With immortality her dower,
Behold the Helen of the heart!
Inscription 05 - For A Monument At Silbury-Hill
This mound in some remote and dateless day
Rear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age of Hills,
May here detain thee Traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some Warrior sleeps below: his gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival
The Bard has harp'd, but perish'd is the song
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs
The wind that passes and is heard no more.
Go Traveller on thy way, and contemplate
Glory's brief pageant, and remember then
That one good deed was never wrought in vain.
poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rise Ye! Rise Ye!
Rise Ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!
Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel!
They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than brutes!
Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed boots!
Rise ye rise ye glorious toilers
Rise ye rise ye noble toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves!
Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye? will ye still be sl-a-a-ves?
Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws!
Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws!
Rise ye! rise ye glorious toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye noble toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!
Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now!
He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near;
See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!
Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep!
Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain!
March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Erwake! er-r-rise!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Epitaph For Joseph Blackett, Late Poet And Shoemaker
Stranger! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly -- where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phobus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only 'leather and prunella?'
For character - he did not lack it
And if he did, 'twere shame to 'Black it.
Malta, May 16, 1811.