On Lord Thurlow's Poems
When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent
(I hope I am not violent),
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
And since not even our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise--
Why would they let him print his lays'
To me, divine Apollo, grant--O!
Hermilda s first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining,--
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.
Related quotes
To Lord Thurlow
'I lay my branch of laurel down.
Then thus to form Apollo's crown.
Let every other bring his own.'~Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers
'I lay my branch of laurel down.'
Thou 'lay thy branch of laurel down!'
Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,
Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou--none.
'Then thus to form Apollo's crown.'
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.
'Let every other bring his own.'
When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the R egent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.
Oye Mi Canto
Take me... only for what i am
You've got a right to speak your mind
You've gotta take a stand
No one... has the right to say
This is right or that is wrong
It isn't just one way
Find common ground
Go in between
Things aren't always what they seem
Someday it'll be alright
Changes happen overnight
People, let's give each other room
If we're gonna work it out
We better make it soon
Love is... love is such a common word
When it's pride we mistake for love
Isn't that absurd
Why always take
The upper hand
It's better to understand
Someday it'll be alright
Changes happen overnight
Someday it'll be alright
Changes happen overnight
Oye mi canto
Oye mi canto
Oye mi canto
I believe in love but with no conditions
Oye mi canto
And giving in sometimes
Doesn't make it submission
Oye mi canto
Hate is so common it's almost tradition
Oye mi canto
Come on let's leave it behind
And make that transition
Oye mi canto
Oye mi canto
Oye mi canto
Oye mi canto
Oye mi canto....
song performed by by Gloria Estefan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Was Never Meant To Be
This was never meant to be,
All the signs were there to see,
From the first moment that we met, I knew,
This was never meant to be.
This was always doomed to fail,
From the moment we set sail,
All our instincts told us we were wrong,
This was never meant to be.
But soon we were enraptured in love's dance,
When the dance ended I found,
I couldn't live without you.
And now, all of my dreams are sad embers
Here in the cold of December,
And now you're in the arms of someone else,
I always knew that...
This was always second best,
Our love would fall at the first test,
Common sense would tell us we were wrong,
This was never meant to be.
This was never meant to last,
We drank our cup of love to fast,
From the first moment that we met, I knew,
Now Miss, from our first kiss,
I tell you this was never meant to be
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Promotion Of Edward Thurlow, Esq. To The Lord High Chancellorship Of England
Round Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
Fair science poured the light of truth,
And genius shed his rays.
See! with united wonder, cried
The experienced and the sage,
Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age.
Discernment, eloquence, and grace
Proclaim him born to sway
The balance in the highest place,
And bear the palm away.
The praise bestowed was just and wise;
He sprang impetuous forth,
Secure of conquest, where the prize
Attends the superior worth.
So the best courser on the plain
Ere yet he starts is known,
And does but at the goal obtain
What all had deemed his own.
poem by William Cowper
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Psalm 86
v.8-13
C. M.
A general song of praise to God.
Among the princes, earthly gods,
There's none hath power divine;
Nor is their nature, mighty Lord,
Nor are their works, like thine.
The nations thou hast made shall bring
Their off'rings round thy throne;
For thou alone dost wondrous things,
For thou art God alone.
Lord, I would walk with holy feet;
Teach me thine heav'nly ways,
And my poor scattered thoughts unite
In God my Father's praise.
Great is thy mercy, and my tongue
Shall those sweet wonders tell,
How by thy grace my sinking soul
Rose from the deeps of hell.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Psalm 145
The greatness of God.
My God, my King, thy various praise
Shall fill the remnant of my days;
Thy grace employ my humble tongue
Till death and glory raise the song.
The wings of every hour shall bear
Some thankful tribute to thine ear;
And every setting sun shall see
New works of duty done for thee.
Thy truth and justice I'll proclaim;
Thy bounty flows an endless stream;
Thy mercy swift, thine anger slow,
But dreadful to the stubborn foe.
Thy works with sovereign glory shine,
And speak thy majesty divine;
Let Britain round her shores proclaim
The sound and honor of thy name.
Let distant times and nations raise
The long succession of thy praise,
And unborn ages make my song
The joy and labor of their tongue.
But who can speak thy wondrous deeds?
Thy greatness all our thoughts exceeds?
Vast and unsearchable thy ways,
Vast and immortal be thy praise!
poem by Isaac Watts
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Praise The Generous Gods
Praise the generous gods for giving
In a world of wrath and strife,
With a little time for living,
Unto all the joy of life.
At whatever source we drink it,
Art or life or faith or wine,
In whatever terms we think it,
It is common and divine.
Praise the high gods, for in giving
This for man, and this alone,
They have made his chance for living
Shine the equal of their own.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Most of my thoughts, you couldn't print.
quote by Jim Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epistle To Mr. Murray
My dear Mr. Murray,
You're in a damn 'd hurry,
To set up this ultimate Canto;
But (if they don't rob us)
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse
Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.
For the Journal you hint of,
As ready to print off,
No doubt you do right to commend it;
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of
Our 'Beppo:'--when copied, I'll send it.
Then you've Sotheby's Tour,--
No great things, to be sure,--
You could hardly begin with a less work;
For the pompous rascallion,
Who don't speak Italian
Nor French, must have scribbled by guess work.
You can make any loss up
With 'Spence' and his gossip,
A work which must surely succeed;
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,
With the new 'Fytte' of 'Whistlecraft,'
Must make people purchase and read.
Then you've General Gordon,
Who girded his sword on,
To serve with a Muscovite master
And help him to polish
A nation so owlish,
They thought shaving their beards a disaster.
For the man, 'poor and shrewd,'
With whom you'd conclude
A compact without more delay,
Perhaps some such pen is
Still extant in Venice;
But please, sir, to mention your pay.
Venice, January 8, 1818.
Written Upon The Rocks At Tunbridge,
Hither, amongst the Crouds, that shun
The smoaky Town, and sultry Sun,
In cooling Springs to seek for Health,
Or throw away superfluous Wealth,
A Native of Hibernia came,
Thus writ her Thoughts, but not her Name.
Hither the Britons, void of Care,
A happy, free--born Race, repair:
Whilst I, who feel a diff'rent Fate,
Lament my Country's wretched State;
The pitying Rocks return my Lays,
Just Emblem of the barren Bays.
Thus far -- When, lo! the God of Wit,
Who slightly glanc'd on what was writ,
Suspend, he cries, thy Cares a--while;
My Sackville soon shall bless your lsle:
No longer talk of barren Bays;
Remember, 'tis a Dorset sways.
poem by Mary Barber
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Translated Out Of Gazaeus,
GOD grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine,
Thou who dost, best friend, in best things outshine ;
May thy soul, ever cheerful, ne'er know cares,
Nor thy life, ever lively, know grey hairs,
Nor thy hand, ever open, know base holds,
Nor thy purse, ever plump, know pleats, or folds,
Nor thy tongue, ever true, know a false thing,
Nor thy words, ever mild, know quarrelling,
Nor thy works, ever equal, know disguise,
Nor thy fame, ever pure, know contumelies,
Nor thy prayers know low objects, still divine ;
God grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine.
poem by John Donne
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In Memoriam
Looking some papers over,
Dusty and dim and old,
I found some words that thrilled me
With their ring of genuine gold-
Words that were better than rubies,
And they stirred me even to tears,
For the hand that wrote them has rested
Under the sod for years.
O name to be spoken softly!
O sainted Thurlow Brown!
The world lost one of its heroes
When he dropped the cross for the crown.
And the cause he loved and fought for
Lost more than my tongue can tell
For he left no soul behind him
That could do the work so well.
When I think of his mighty labors,
My own seem weak and vain,
And I know that his place in the vineyard
Can never be filled again.
But the burning words that he uttered,
Or that dropped like coals from his pen,
Shall live for ever and ever
In the hearts and minds of men.
O God! if spirits do ever
Come down from heaven on high,
Let the spirit of this great hero
Sometimes be hovering nigh;
And give him the power to guide us
In all that we do or say
For the cause he loved and fought for.
Oh! grant it, Lord, I pray.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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If God Made Thee Mine
If God made thee mine, and willed that I be thine,
What wondrous love with thee I'd daily share!
The world could not contain the joys of Lovers' Lane
Nor bind our hearts more tightly, this I swear!
If God made me thine, I'd kiss those lips of wine,
Anointing them with sighs straight from my soul!
My heart burns like a flame when whispering thy name
To melt within all thoughts of self-control!
If God made thee mine, my precious Valentine,
The yearning years at last would thus be stilled!
My pining would be done for I'd be with the one
Whom God had made to help me be fulfilled!
If God made me thine, I'd praise His love divine
And pray He grant us heirs and happiness!
A gorgeous girl and boy and times we could enjoy...
Yes, if God made thee mine to love and bless...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Psalm 135
Praise due to God, not to idols.
Awake, ye saints; to praise your King,
Your sweetest passions raise,
Your pious pleasure, while you sing,
Increasing with the praise.
Great is the Lord, and works unknown
Are his divine employ;
But still his saints are near his throne,
His treasure and his joy.
Heav'n, earth, and sea confess his hand;
He bids the vapors rise;
Lightning and storm at his command
Sweep through the sounding skies.
All power that gods or kings have claimed
Is found with him alone
But heathen gods should ne'er be named
Where our Jehovah's known.
Which of the stocks or stones they trust
Can give them showers of rain?
In vain they worship glitt'ring dust,
And pray to gold in vain.
[Their gods have tongues that cannot talk,
Such as their makers gave;
Their feet were ne'er designed to walk,
Nor hands have power to save.
Blind are their eyes, their ears are deaf,
Nor hear when mortals pray;
Mortals that wait for their relief
Are blind and deaf as they.]
O Britain, know thy living God,
Serve him with faith and fear;
He makes thy churches his abode,
And claims thine honors there.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Sense
Sense
Which makes some sense
Other than nonsense
Supreme sense
Is civic sense.
Embedded with moral sense
Inject sense
In this universe
Oozing with nonsense.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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In Praise Of The Moon
I will not sing you a song of praise
O gentle moon
there are too many modern people around
too many enlightened minds tonight
they reckon they don't need your light;
there are too many elect
and too many going to Heaven
and if I sang in praise of you
they will throw their Blessed Books at me
and they will say
'You moon-worshiper, you go to hell! '
(they fancy words like idolator)
O so most divine moon
O godly moon
O most sacred moon
I shall not sing in praise of you;
there are too many bloodthirsty wolves around
poem by Raj Arumugam
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So where's my silver lining?
I ofetn ly awake and wonder
while outside the stars are shining
well, on this earth someone sure loves me
and he's called my silver lining...
When i think of what he's like i see
his smile's mischivious, his eyes are loving
he's promised to love me all my life
and he's called my silver lining...
When i think of what his nature would be
so true are this thoughts & genuine each feeling
i sure hope he always stays that way
and he's called my silver lining...
When i think of what our relation feels life
he's my hero, he's protective & calls me his darling
he shares & cares, he understands my silence
and he's called my silver lining...
Well on this earth, someone sure loves me
and he's called my silver lining...
with dreams in my eyes, i'm waiting right now
so where's my silver living?
poem by Nitya Pillai
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On the Outskirts of Antioch
We in Antioch were astonished when we heard
what Julian was up to now.
Apollo had made things clear to him at Daphni:
he didn't want to give an oracle (as though we cared!),
he didn't intend to speak prophetically, unless
his temple at Daphni was purified first.
The nearby dead, he declared, got on his nerves.
There are many tombs at Daphni.
One of those buried there
was the triumphant and holy martyr Vavylas,
wonder and glory of our church.
It was him the false god hinted at, him he feared.
As long as he felt him near he didn't dare
pronounce his oracle: not a murmur.
(The false gods are terrified of our martyrs.)
Unholy Julian got worked up,
lost his temper and shouted: "Raise him, carry him out,
take him away immediately, this Vavylas.
You there, do you hear? He gets on Apollo's nerves.
Grab him, raise him at once,
dig him out, take him away, throw him out,
take him wherever you want. This isn't a joke.
Apollo said the temple has to be purified."
We took it, the holy relic, and carried it elsewhere.
We took it, we carried it away in love and in honor.
And hasn't the temple done brilliantly since!
In no time at all a colossal fire
broke out, a terrible fire,
and both the temple and Apollo burned to nothing.
Ashes the idol: dirt to be swept away.
Julian exploded, and he spread it around—
what else could he do?—that we, the Christians,
had set the fire. Let him say so.
It hasn't been proved. Let him say so.
The essential thing is—he exploded.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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O Holy Night (feat. The London Symphony Orchestra)
O Holy night, the stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder beams a new and glorious morn
Fall on your knees
Oh, hear the angel voices
O night divine, O night when Christ was born
O night divine, O night, O night divine
Truly he taught us to love one another
His law is love and His gospel is peace
Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother
And in His name all oppression shall cease
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise me
Let all within us praise His holy name
Christ is the Lord
Then ever, we will praise thee
O night divine! O night when Christ was born
O night divine! O night, O night divine
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Canary Bird
I cannot hear thy voice with other’s ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;
And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.
Alas! That with thy music’s gentle swell
Past days of joy should through thy memory throng,
And each to thee their words of sorrow tell
While ravished sense forgets thee in thy song.
The heart that on thy past and future feeds,
And pours in human words its thoughts divine,
Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds,
Its song may charm the listening ear like thine,
And men with gilded cage and praise will try
To make the bard like thee forget his native sky.
poem by Jones Very
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