Prologue To Mallet's Mustapha
Since Athens first began to draw mankind,
To picture life, and show the impassion'd mind;
The truly wise have ever deem'd the stage
The moral school of each enlighten'd age.
There, in full pomp, the tragic Muse appears,
Queen of soft sorrows, and of useful fears.
Faint is the lesson reason's rules impart:
She pours it strong, and instant through the heart.
If virtue is her theme, we sudden glow
With generous flame; and what we feel, we grow.
If vice she paints, indignant passions rise;
The villain sees himself with loathing eyes.
His soul starts, conscious, at another's groan,
And the pale tyrant trembles on his throne.
To-night, our meaning scene attempts to show
What fell events from dark suspicion flow;
Chief when it taints a lawless monarch's mind,
To the false herd of flattering slaves confined.
The soul sinks gradual to so dire a state;
E'en excellence but serves to feed its hate:
To hate remorseless cruelty succeeds,
And every worth, and every virtue bleeds.
Behold, our author at your bar appears,
His modest hopes depress'd by conscious fears.
Faults he has many—but to balance those,
His verse with heart-felt love of virtue glows:
All slighter errors let indulgence spare,
And be his equal trial full and fair.
For this best British privilege we call,
Then—as he merits, let him stand or fall.
poem by James Thomson
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Related quotes
Chorus of Athenians
Strophe I.
Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught;
Where heav'nly visions of Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd!
In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.
Antistrophe I.
Oh heav'n-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and mystic Song!
To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
Say, will you bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
Strophe II.
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore,
Shall cease to blush with strager's gore.
See Arts her savage sons control,
And Athens rising near the pole!
'Till some new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from this land.
Antistrophe II.
Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!
Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.
poem by Alexander Pope
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A poem, Sacred to the Glorious memory of King George
Let gaudy Mirth, to the blithe Carrol-song,
In loose light-measur'd Numbers dance along;
Thou, Muse no flow'ry Fancies here display,
Nor warble with the chearful Lark thy Lay.
In the dark Cypress Grove, or moss-grown Cell,
Where dreary Ravens haunt, would Sorrow dwell!
Where Ghosts, that shun the Day, come sweeping by,
Or fix in melancholy Frenzy's Eye;
Yet now she turns her Flight to Scenes of State,
Where Wealth and Grandeur weep the Frowns of Fate!
Wealth, Want, Rank, Power, here each alike partakes,
As the Shrub bends, the lofty Cedar shakes;
To her wide View is no Contraction known,
Tis Youth, 'tis Age, the Cottage and the Throne.
O Exclamation! lend thy sad Relief!
O Dodington! indulge the righteous Grief!
Distant, I've long beheld, in Thee, transcend
The Poet, Patron, Patriot, and the Friend.
Thou, who must live in Truth's remotest Page,
Form'd to delight, and dignify an Age;
Whose Words, whose Manners, and whose Mind declare,
Each Grace, each Moral, and each Muse are there;
Accept this Po'esy, void of venal Aim,
Made sacred by thy Royal Master's Name.
But why, O Muse! are songful Hours thy Choice?
Lost is the Life, whose Glory lifts thy Voice!
George is no more! As at the doomful sound
Of the last Trump, all Nature feels the Wound!
Each private, each distinguish'd Virtue bleeds!
And what but Lamentation long succeeds?
Where wilt thou then for apt Allusions fly?
What Eloquence can throbbing Grief supply?
Late, golden Pleasures urg'd their shining Way,
With George they flourish'd, and with George decay!
Now dusky Woes, o'er varied Scenes extend,
Groans rise! Rocks echo! and chill Damps descend!
Grief strikes my View with ever-weeping Eyes,
At her wan Look, each lively Fancy dies.
In fear, in hope, dull rest, or rufling Storms,
Thus Woe besets us, tho in various Forms!
That dire Event of Youth's ungovern'd Rage!
That dear-bought Knowledge to declining Age!
In Want, in Scorn, it haunts an humble State,
Tis Care, 'tis Envy, to perplex the Great!
A Kingdom's Curse, it in Dissention brings;
Or heavier falls, when falls the best of Kings!
Worth it exalts, when aiming to debase;
Tis Virtue's Triumph, or 'tis Guilt's Disgrace!
It humbles Life, yet dignifies our End;
Reflection's Torment, yet Reflection's Friend!
Then let the Muse her meaning Notes resume,
And pay due Sorrows to the hallow'd Tomb.
Was there a Glory, yet to Greatness known,
That not in Brunswick's Soul superiour shone?
Ill fare the Man, who, rob'd in purple Pride,
To wounded Worth has no Relief apply'd!
Benevolence makes Pow'r to Prudence dear,
When Pity weeps, what Pearl excells the Tear?
When not one Virtue glows to bless Mankind,
When Pride's cold Influence petrifies the Mind;
Let the Prince blaze with Jems!-in Wisdom's View,
An Emblem of the Rock, where once they grew!
Yet Springs gush out, to prove ev'n Rocks can flow
In Rills refreshful to the Vales below.
Why has he pow'r, and why no heart to chear,
Unseeing Eyes, and Ears that will not hear?
Swift, as his Bliss, shall his light Name decay,
Who, self-indulgent, sports his Hours away!
But, Oh!-what Love, what Honour shall he claim,
Whose Joy is Bounty, and whose Gift is Fame?
He (truly Great!) his useful Pow'r refines,
By him discover'd Worth exalted shines;
Exalted Worth, th'enlivening Act, repeats,
And draws new Virtues from obscure Retreats;
He, as the first, creative Influence, prais'd,
Smiles o'er the Beings, which his Bounty rais'd.
Such Dodington, thy Royal Master shin'd,
Such Thou, the Image of thy Monarch's Mind.
Nations were ballanc'd by his guardian Skill,
Like the pois'd Planets by the all-powerful Will.
Mark the Swede succour'd! mark th'aspiring CZAR!
Check'd are his Hopes, and shun'd the naval War.
By George the Austrian Eagle learns to tower,
While the proud Turk shakes conscious of her Power;
But when her Menace braves our envied Shore,
She trembles at the British Lyon's Roar;
Trembles, tho' aided by the Force of Spain,
And India's Wealth!-'gainst Brunswick, All how vain?
He bad thy Honour, Albion, foremost shine!
His was the Care, unmeasur'd Bliss was Thine!
Yet oft against his Virtue Faction rose!
An Angel, if thy Monarch, would have Foes.
Come Charity, First-born of Virtue's Line!
Come meek-ey'd Mercy from the Seat divine!
Pure Temp'rance, Mistriss of a tranquil Mind,
By whom each sensual Passion stands confin'd!
Fix'd Fortitude, from whom fierce Peril flies!
By whom (O Soul of Action!) Empires rise!
Fair Justice, Author of a Godlike Reign!
Peace, Plenty, Liberty adorn thy Train!
Lov'd Prudence! Queen of Virtues! blissful Dame!
Parent, and Guide of each illustrious Aim!
From whose firm Step Confusion turns in Flight,
That shapeless Spawn of Anarchy and Night!
From whom kind Harmony deduc'd her Race,
Then Order, all in one united Grace!
And thou Religion! truest, heav'nly Friend!
Whom these alone establish, These defend!
Assemble to the wailing Muse's call!
Weep o'er the clay-cold Breast, that held you All!
O Death, rouze all those Terrors to thy Aid,
Weak Fear, or wisest Valour wou'd evade!
Whether foul Pestilence in dire Array,
Red War, or pale-ey'd Famine point your Way,
What can you more than Kingdoms overthrow?
What aim'd you less, when Brunswick felt the Blow?
But mark!-Augustus, still above thy Rage,
Steps forth to give a second Golden Age.
Ye great Plantagenets! distinguish'd Race!
One greater meets you on celestial Space.
And thou, Nassau the fairest noblest Name!
Ev'n mid the Blest, superior still thy Flame!
Behold an Equal now!-How dear th'Embrace!
Oh, fly!-present him at the Throne of Grace!
'Tis done!-He's crown'd with a resplendent Joy,
Which Care shall never dim, nor Time destroy.
See!-from yon golden Cloud, amidst a Band
Of Angel-Pow'rs, once Patriots of the Land,
Soft-leaning o'er Britania's weeping Isle,
And shedding sweet, a fond, paternal Smile;
Pointing, the visionary Seraph cries,
Suspend thy Tears!-Behold a Sov'reign rise,
Thy Second George! whose Reign shall soon disclose
All that mine gave, and Heav'n, in Grace bestows.
He said.-Again, with Majesty refin'd,
Up-wing'd to Realms of Bliss, th'Ætherial Mind.
Finis
poem by Richard Savage
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You cannot have Liberty in this world without what you call Moral Virtue, and you cannot have Moral Virtue without the slavery of that half of the human race who hate what you call Moral Virtue.
quote by William Blake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Right Honourable The Earl Of Orrery In Dublin
Let Others speak your Titles, and your Blood;
Accept from Me the glorious Name of Good.
This Honour only from fair Virtue springs,
Ennobles Slaves, adds Dignity to Kings.
O Born to shew Nobility design'd
Not to insult, but to protect Mankind!
Well you discern to spare, or to bestow;
Nor waste in Riot, what to Worth you owe.
Judgment your Bounty guides; and all agree,
'Tis Praise, 'tis Glory, to receive from Thee.
Gen'rous thy Gifts; but more thy matchless Art,
To spare the Blush, and doubly bind the Heart.
Tho' Fortune place me in a distant Scene;
And Mountains rise, and Oceans roll between;
O'er Mountains, Oceans, Gratitude conveys
The good Man's Act, and wide extends his Praise.
Strange! that your Judgment errs in this alone;
Barber you bless, yet hope your Gifts unknown.
'Tis Hers to bring each lovely Deed to Light,
And force unwilling Virtue to the Sight:
'Tis Hers, and 'tis Her Muse's greatest Pride,
A Favour never to forget, or hide.
Illustrious Youth! and let me style you Friend,
O look with Candor on the Lines I send!
Warm from the Heart my artless Numbers fall;
Nor wait Correctness, when your Virtues call.
Here, bless'd with all that human Life requires,
Superior to vain Fears, or low Desires;
In chearful Solitude, in studious Ease;
Careful my Conscience, and my God, to please;
I think on Thee, when Want, or Worth, implore;
And unrepining share my little Store.
So Stars attend the beauteous Queen of Night;
And faintly shine, not emulate her Light.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Death of Virtuous
Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!—
When sinks a righteous soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes,
How gently heaves the' expiring breast!
So fades a summer cloud away;
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore.
Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fanned by some angel's purple wing;—
Where is, O Grave! thy victory now?
And where, insidious Death! thy sting?
Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,
Where light and shade alternate dwell;
How bright the' unchanging morn appears!
Farewell, inconstant world, Farewell!
Its duty done,—as sinks the clay,
Light from its load the spirit flies;
While heaven and earth combine to say,
“Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!”
poem by Anna Laetitia Barbauld
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Epilogue To Tancred And Sigismunda
Cramm'd to the throat with wholesome moral stuff,
Alas! poor audience! you have had enough.
Was ever hapless heroine of a play
In such a piteous plight as ours to-day?
Was ever woman so by love betray'd?
Match'd with two husbands, and yet—die a maid.
But bless me!—hold—What sounds are these I hear!—
I see the Tragic Muse herself appear.
[The back scene opens, and discovers a romantic sylvan landscape; from which Mrs. Cibber, in the character of the Tragic Muse, advances slowly to music, and speaks the following lines]:
Hence with your flippant epilogue, that tries
To wipe the virtuous tear from British eyes;
That dares my moral, tragic scene profane,
With strains—at best, unsuiting, light and vain.
Hence from the pure unsullied beams that play
In yon fair eyes where virtue shines—Away!
Britons, to you from chaste Castalian groves,
Where dwell the tender, oft unhappy loves!
Where shades of heroes roam, each mighty name,
And court my aid to rise again to fame;
To you I come, to Freedom's noblest seat,
And in Britannia fix my last retreat.
In Greece and Rome, I watch'd the public weal,
The purple tyrant trembled at my steel:
Nor did I less o'er private sorrows reign,
And mend the melting heart with softer pain.
On France and you then rose my brightening star,
With social ray—The arts are ne'er at war.
O, as your fire and genius stronger blaze,
As yours are generous Freedom's bolder lays,
Let not the Gallic taste leave yours behind,
In decent manners and in life refined;
Banish the motley mode to tag low verse,
The laughing ballad to the mournful hearse.
When through five acts your hearts have learnt to glow,
Touch'd with the sacred force of honest woe;
O keep the dear impression on your breast,
Nor idly loose it for a wretched jest.
poem by James Thomson
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Friendship and Love
A DIALOGUE: Addressed to a young Lady.
Friendship:
In vain thy lawless Fires contend with mine,
Tho' Crouds unnumber'd fall before thy Shrine;
Let Youths, who ne'er aspir'd to noble Fame,
And the soft Virgin, kindle at thy Flame,
Thee, Son of Indolence and Vice, I scorn,
By Reason nourish'd, and of Virtue born.
Love:
Vain is that boasted Reason 'gainst my Dart,
I pierce the Sage's, as the vulgar Heart,
All Ages, Sexes, the soft Torment share,
The hoary Patriot, and the blooming Fair.
To narrow Limits is thy Sway confin'd,
To some few Breasts, I triumph o'er Mankind.
Friendship:
From grov'ling Sources, ever springs thy Pow'r,
Still varying Fancy, and frail Beauty's Flow'r:
Then with its Cause the short liv'd Ardour flies,
A flash of Passion that but gleams and dies.
Mine upon Virtue rais'd, still lives the same,
In gen'rous Hearts a constant equal Flame.
Love:
Love is not always that degen'rate thing,
I too from Virtue, as from Beauty spring.
Thou to the same dull Circle ever true,
Know'st but one Form all Tempers to subdue
Wide is my Empire, manyfold my Arts,
And various are the Plumes that wing my Darts.
Here a Fair face allures desiring Eyes,
There Modesty and Sense enslave the Wise.
Thus whilst each Pow'r with equal Warmth contends,
The Clouds divide, an heavenly Form descends,
Wings o'er his Shoulders mantling wav'd, behind
His snowy Garments floated in the wind;
A Wreath of mingled Flow'rs adorned his Head,
Immortal Flow'rs by Mold Ætherial fed,
Graceful he mov'd in Youth and Beauty's pride,
His Cheeks Aurora's op'ning Blushes dy'd,
A flaming Torch he bore, approaching now,
Fair Hymen Guardian of the nuptial Vow,
They knew and paus'd, He first the Silence broke,
Celestial Musick warbled as he spoke.
Cease, rival Pow'rs, with Rage unjust to glow,
Ye both to Men the noblest Gifts bestow.
Howe'er by Folly or by Vice abus'd,
Blessings are turn'd to Curses when misus'd.
Mine be the Praise the Gifts of both to blend.
And to the virtuous Lover join the Friend.
Thus shall Life glide away in mutual Joys,
Sweets that ne'er tire, and Rapture that ne'er cloys.
So blest an Union, Anna mayst thou prove,
A constant Friendship, in a tender Love.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Just as treasures are uncovered from the earth, so virtue appears from good deeds, and wisdom appears from a pure and peaceful mind. To walk safely through the maze of human life, one needs the light of wisdom and the guidance of virtue.
To Mr. Addison on His Tragedy of Cato
Too long hath love engross'd Britannia's stage,
And sunk to softness all our tragic rage:
By that alone did empires fall or rise,
And fate depended on a fair-one's eyes:
The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it sooth'd the heart.
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame:
A patriot's fall may justly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind.
How do our souls with generous pleasure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight
Of all his sufferings venerably great;
Rome's poor remains still sheltering by his side,
With conscious virtue, and becoming pride!
The aged oak thus rears his head in air,
His sap exhausted, and his branches bare;
'Midst storms and earthquakes, he maintains his state,
Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight
His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful shade.
Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows,
Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes;
Awhile they let the world's great business wait,
Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato's fate.
Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,
Where states and senates well might lend an ear,
And kings and priests without a blush appear.
France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now first pays homage to her rival's stage,
Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms, and British wit:
No more she'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see,
And fondly triumphs in a son like thee.
The senates, consuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find: each deed, each word exprest,
And every thought that swell'd a Roman breast,
We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire
With Virgil's judgement, and with Lucan's fire;
We know thy worth, and, give us leave to boast,
We most admire, because we know thee most.
poem by Thomas Tickell
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To Seraphina
The wanton's charms, however bright,
Are like the false illusive light
Whose flattering unauspicious blaze
To precipices oft betrays:
But that sweet ray your beauties dart,
Which clears the mind, and cleans the heart,
Is like the sacred queen of night,
Who pours a lovely gentle light
Wide o'er the dark, by wanderers blest,
Conducting them to peace and rest.
A vicious love depraves the mind,
'Tis anguish, guilt, and folly joined;
But Seraphina's eyes dispense
A mild and gracious influence;
Such as in visions angels shed
Around the heaven-illumined head.
To love thee, Seraphina, sure
Is to be tender, happy, pure;
'Tis from low passions to escape,
And woo bright virtue's fairest shape;
'Tis ecstasy with wisdom joined;
And heaven infused into the mind.
poem by James Thomson
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The Stalker
first came the obsession stage
then their mind became full of rage.
it does not matter if they're man or woman
for it is the same, their obsession becomes a game.
it usually starts off as admiration or a desire
to be with a person who has sparked their fire.
they start to fantasize every day
and how in their lives, the role they'll play.
it starts off simply as becoming their mate
and when that fails it turns to hate.
but in their minds all they could see
is that it's a love 'between her/he and me.
they feel that it's their heart, thats in control
and that it will touch the others soul.
they can not see that they are obsessed
with an inner desire, and that they are
not a knight in shining armour.
soon their mind and actions become as one
then they may reach for a gun.
for in their mind they belong together
and that their lives will be much better.
but when they realize that they've been rejected
than their minds become more infected.
from here on they no longer become a talker
instead they change their hat to a STALKER.
they will follow the person all around
in hopes that they will have a chance
to be their savior, and then looked upon in favor.
they have no concept of the hurt that they create
and the fears that they put a person through.
but in their minds, thats not what they do.
they were put here to enter that persons life
to become their husbands or their wives.
in their minds, they can do no wrong
for their love is much too strong.
fear the STALKERS- for they know not what they do
don't let them get close to you.
poem by Louis Rams
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Ode V: On Love Of Praise
I.
Of all the springs within the mind
Which prompt her steps in fortune's maze,
From none more pleasing aid we find
Than from the genuine love of praise.
II.
Nor any partial, private end
Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any passion, virtue's friend,
So like to virtue's self appears.
III.
For who in glory can delight
Without delight in glorious deeds?
What man a charming voice can slight,
Who courts the echo that succeeds?
IV.
But not the echo on the voice
More, than on virtue praise, depends;
To which, of course, it's real price
The judgment of the praiser lends.
V.
If praise then with religious awe
From the sole perfect judge be sought,
A nobler aim, a purer law
Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.
VI.
With which in character the same
Tho' in an humbler sphere it lies,
I count that soul of human fame,
The suffrage of the good and wise.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Sonnet XXV: The Wisest Scholar
The wisest scholar of the wight most wise
By Phoebus' doom, with sugar'd sentence says,
That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes,
Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise;
But for that man with pain his truth descries,
Whiles he each thing in sense's balance weighs,
And so nor will, nor can behold those skies
Which inward sun to heroic mind displays,
Virtue of late with virtuous care to stir
Love of herself, took Stella's shape, that she
To mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her.
It is most true, for since I her did see,
Virtue's great beauty in that face I prove,
And find th'effect, for I do burn in love.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Answer To Some Elegant Verses Sent By A Friend To The Author, Complaining That One Of His Descriptions Was Rather Too Warmly Drawn
'But if any old lady, knight, priest or physician
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?'~New Bath Guide.
CANDOUR compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend.
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon, — must I sue In vain?
The wise sometlrnes ftom Wisdom's ways depart:
Can youth then hush the dlctates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind
Limping Decorum lingers far behind:
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd In the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove:
Let those whose souls Conternn the pleasing power
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines In chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon I boast is youth;—
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be 't from me the 'vlrgin's stand' to 'taint':
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firzn in her virtue's strength, yet not severe
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine
Will ne'er be 'tainted' by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread
Sho would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er he proud;
Their warrnest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.
Sonnet: Show Me …
Show me a hand that’s scarred by giving alms;
Show me an arm that helped others life-long;
Show me a face of greed that always calms;
Show me a voice tired by divine song.
Show me a foot that’s lame, walking with God;
Show me a tongue pale, speaking holy words;
Show me a soul that fears not God’s just rod;
Show me an eye blind that loves killing birds.
Show me a knee, pained by genuflection;
Show me a soul upright that fears its loss;
Show me body weak by meditation;
Show me a shoulder burdened by Christ’s cross.
Show me a heart gone small, loving brethren;
Show me a mind tired seeking Heaven!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-14-2008
poem by John Celes
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Lines written as a School Exercise at Hawkshead, Anno Aetatis
"And has the Sun his flaming chariot driven
Two hundred times around the ring of heaven,
Since Science first, with all her sacred train,
Beneath yon roof began her heavenly reign?
While thus I mused, methought, before mine eyes,
The Power of EDUCATION seemed to rise;
Not she whose rigid precepts trained the boy
Dead to the sense of every finer joy;
Nor that vile wretch who bade the tender age
Spurn Reason's law and humour Passion's rage;
But she who trains the generous British youth
In the bright paths of fair majestic Truth:
Emerging slow from Academus' grove
In heavenly majesty she seemed to move.
Stern was her forehead, but a smile serene
'Softened the terrors of her awful mien.'
Close at her side were all the powers, designed
To curb, exalt, reform the tender mind:
With panting breast, now pale as winter snows,
Now flushed as Hebe, Emulation rose;
Shame followed after with reverted eye,
And hue far deeper than the Tyrian dye;
Last Industry appeared with steady pace,
A smile sat beaming on her pensive face.
I gazed upon the visionary train,
Threw back my eyes, returned, and gazed again.
When lo! the heavenly goddess thus began,
Through all my frame the pleasing accents ran.
"'When Superstition left the golden light
And fled indignant to the shades of night;
When pure Religion reared the peaceful breast
And lulled the warring passions into rest,
Drove far away the savage thoughts that roll
In the dark mansions of the bigot's soul,
Enlivening Hope displayed her cheerful ray,
And beamed on Britain's sons a brighter day;
So when on Ocean's face the storm subsides,
Hushed are the winds and silent are the tides;
The God of day, in all the pomp of light,
Moves through the vault of heaven, and dissipates the
night;
Wide o'er the main a trembling lustre plays,
The glittering waves reflect the dazzling blaze
Science with joy saw Superstition fly
Before the lustre of Religion's eye;
With rapture she beheld Britannia smile,
Clapped her strong wings, and sought the cheerful isle,
The shades of night no more the soul involve,
She sheds her beam, and, lo! the shades dissolve;
No jarring monks, to gloomy cell confined,
With mazy rules perplex the weary mind;
No shadowy forms entice the soul aside,
Secure she walks, Philosophy her guide.
Britain, who long her warriors had adored,
And deemed all merit centred in the sword;
Britain, who thought to stain the field was fame,
Now honoured Edward's less than Bacon's name.
Her sons no more in listed fields advance
To ride the ring, or toss the beamy lance;
No longer steel their indurated hearts
To the mild influence of the finer arts;
Quick to the secret grotto they retire
To court majestic truth, or wake the golden lyre;
By generous Emulation taught to rise,
The seats of learning brave the distant skies.
Then noble Sandys, inspired with great design,
Reared Hawkshead's happy roof, and called it mine.
There have I loved to show the tender age
The golden precepts of the classic page;
To lead the mind to those Elysian plains
Where, throned in gold, immortal Science reigns;
Fair to the view is sacred Truth displayed,
In all the majesty of light arrayed,
To teach, on rapid wings, the curious soul
To roam from heaven to heaven, from pole to pole,
From thence to search the mystic cause of things
And follow Nature to her secret springs;
Nor less to guide the fluctuating youth
Firm in the sacred paths of moral truth,
To regulate the mind's disordered frame,
And quench the passions kindling into flame;
The glimmering fires of Virtue to enlarge,
And purge from Vice's dross my tender charge.
Oft have I said, the paths of Fame pursue,
And all that Virtue dictates, dare to do;
Go to the world, peruse the book of man,
And learn from thence thy own defects to scan;
Severely honest, break no plighted trust,
But coldly rest not here--be more than just;
Join to the rigours of the sires of Rome
The gentler manners of the private dome;
When Virtue weeps in agony of woe,
Teach from the heart the tender tear to flow;
If Pleasure's soothing song thy soul entice,
Or all the gaudy pomp of splendid Vice,
Arise superior to the Siren's power,
The wretch, the short-lived vision of an hour;
Soon fades her cheek, her blushing beauties fly,
As fades the chequered bow that paints the sky,
So shall thy sire, whilst hope his breast inspires,
And wakes anew life's glimmering trembling fires, 0
Hear Britain's sons rehearse thy praise with joy,
Look up to heaven, and bless his darling boy.
If e'er these precepts quelled the passions' strife,
If e'er they smoothed the rugged walks of life,
If e'er they pointed forth the blissful way
That guides the spirit to eternal day,
Do thou, if gratitude inspire thy breast,
Spurn the soft fetters of lethargic rest.
Awake, awake! and snatch the slumbering lyre,
Let this bright morn and Sandys the song inspire.'
"I looked obedience: the celestial Fair
Smiled like the morn, and vanished into air."
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love Can Change Your Mind
(bob farrell/regie hamm)
Ive waited all of my life to find my destiny
Then like a sunrise appears, you came to me
I never knew it before that I could feel this way
I thought Id lost my faith
But since you captured my heart
I can say, oh, that...
Love can change your mind, I know
Love can move your heart and soul
And just when you think
Hope has gone and left you behind
Love can change your mind
Picture it if you will, heaven right here on earth
Suddenly, everythings new
Now, I can see what believing was worth, oh, cause...
Love can change your mind, I know
Love can move your heart and soul
And just when you think
Hope has gone and left you behind
Love can change your mind
I was so lost and alone
I felt like my angels had flown away
But now my heart has come home
And I know that its here to stay, oh, cause...
Love can change your mind
And just when you think
Hope has gone and left you behind
Love can change your mind, I know
Love can move your heart and soul
And just when you think
Hope has gone and left you behind
Love can change your mind
song performed by by Lonestar
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A British PHILIPPIC
Occasion'd by the Insults of the
Spaniards
, and the present Preparations for War, 1738.
Whence this unwonted Transport in my Breast?
Why glow my Thoughts, and whither would the Muse
Aspire with rapid Wing? Her Country's Cause
Demands her Efforts; at that sacred Call
She summons all her Ardor, throws aside
The trembling Lyre, and with the Warrior Trump
She means to thunder in each
British
Ear.
And if one Spark of Courage, Sense of Fame,
Disdain of Insult, Dread of Infamy,
One Thought of public Virtue yet survive,
She means to wake it, rouze the gen'rous Flame,
With Patriot Zeal inspirit ev'ry Breast,
And fire each
British
Heart with
British
Wrongs.
Alas the vain Attempt! what Influence now
Can the Muse boast? Or what Attention now
Is paid to Fame and Virtue? Where is now
The
British
Spirit, generous, warm and brave,
So frequent known from Tyranny and Woe
To free the suppliant Nations? Where, indeed!
If that Protection, once to Strangers giv'n,
Be now withheld from Sons? Each kindling Thought
That warm'd our Sires, is lost,
In Luxury and Av'rice.—Baneful Vice!
How it unmans a Nation! Yet I'll try,
I'll aim to shake this vile degen'rate Sloth;
I'll dare to rouze
Britannia's
dreaming Sons
To Fame, to Virtue, and impart around
A generous Feeling of compatriot Woes.
Come then the various Pow'rs of forceful Speech!
All that can charm, awaken, fire, transport;
Come the bold Ardor of the
Theban
Bard!
Th'arouzing Thunder of the Patriot
Greek
!
The soft Persuasion of the
Roman
Sage!
Come all! and raise me to an equal Height,
A Rapture worthy of my glorious Cause!
Lest my best Efforts failing should debase
The sacred Theme; for with no common Wing
The Muse attempts to soar. Yet what need these?
My Country's Fame, my free-born
British
Heart
Shall be my best Inspirers, raise my Flight
High as the
Theban's
Pinion, and with more
Than
Greek
or
Roman
Ardor fire my Soul,
—And animate my Numbers. Were there Words
Expressive of the Thoughts that glow within,
Oh! could I give the vast Ideas Birth,
No more should lazy Luxury detain
Our martial Youth; no more should
Britain's
Sons
Sit meanly passive, and regardless hear
The Prayers, Sighs, Groans, (immortal Infamy!)
Of fellow
Britons
, with Oppression sunk,
In Bitterness of Soul demanding Aid,
Calling on
Britain
their dear native Land,
The Land of Liberty; so greatly fam'd
For just Redress; the Land so often dy'd
With her best Blood, for that arouzing Cause,
The Freedom of her Sons; those Sons that now,
Far from the Blessings of her easy Sway,
Drag the vile Fetters of a
Spanish
Lord.
And dare they, dare the vanquish'd Sons of
Spain
Enslave a
Briton
? Have they then forgot,
So soon forgot the great, th'immortal Day,
When rescu'd
Sicily
with Joy beheld
The swift-wing'd Thunder of the
British
Arm
Disperse their Navies? When their coward Bands
Fled, like the Raven from the Bird of
Jove
,
From dread impending Vengeance fled in vain?
Are these our Lords? And can
Britannia
see
Her Foes, oft vanquish'd, thus defy her Pow'r,
Insult her Standard, and enslave her Sons;
Yet not arise to Justice? Did our Sires,
Unaw'd by Chains, by Exile, or by Death,
Preserve inviolate her guardian Rights,
And sacred ev'n to
Britons
! that their Sons
Should give them up to Spaniards?—Turn your Eyes,
Turn ye Degen'rate, who with haughty Boast
Call yourselves Britons, to that dismal Gloom,
That Dungeon dark and deep, where never Thought
Of Joy or Peace can enter; see the Gates
Harsh-creaking open; what an hideous Void,
Dark as the yawning Grave! while still as Death
A frightful Silence reigns: There on the Ground
Behold your Brethren, chain'd like Beasts of Prey:
There mark your num'rous Glories, there behold
The Look that speaks unutterable Woe;
The mangled Limb, the faint, the deathful Eye
With Famine sunk, the deep heart-bursting Groan
Suppress'd in Silence; view the loathsome Food,
Refus'd by Dogs, and oh! the stinging Thought!
View the dark
Spaniard
glorying in their Wrongs,
The deadly Priest triumphant in their Woes,
And thundering worst Damnation on their Souls:
While that pale Form in all the Pangs of Death,
Too faint to speak, yet eloquent of all
His native
British
Spirit yet untam'd,
Raises his Head, and with indignant Frowns
Of great Defiance, and superior Scorn,
Looks up and dies—Oh! I am all on fire!—
But let me spare the Theme, lest future Times
Should blush to hear that either conquer'd
Spain
Durst offer
Britain
such outrageous Wrong,
Or
Britain
tamely bore it.—
Descend, ye guardian Heroes of the Land!
Scourges of
Spain
, descend! Behold your Sons!
See! how they run the same heroic Race,
How prompt, how ardent in their Country's Cause,
How greatly proud t'assert their
British
Blood,
And in their Deeds reflect their Fathers Fame!
Ah! would to Heav'n! ye did not rather see
How dead to Virtue, in the public Cause!
How cold, how careless, how to Glory deaf,
They shame your Laurels, and belie their Birth!
Come, ye great Spirits,
Ca'endish
,
Rawleigh
,
Blake
!
And ye of later Name your Country's Pride,
Oh! come, disperse these lazy Fumes of Sloth,
Teach
British
Hearts with
British
Fires to glow!
In wakening Whispers rouze our martial Youth,
Blazon the Triumphs of your better Days,
Paint all the glorious Scenes of rightful War
In all it's Splendors; to their swelling Souls
Say how ye bow'd th'insulting
Spaniard's
Pride,
Say how ye thunder'd o'er their prostrate Heads,
Say how ye broke their Lines, and fir'd their Ports;
Say how not Death in all its frightful Shapes
Could damp your Souls, or shake the great Resolve
For Right and
Britain
: Then display the Joys
The Patriot's Soul exalting, while he views
Transported Millions hail with loud Acclaim
The Guardian of their civil, sacred Rights:
How greatly welcome to the virtuous Man
To fall for others Good; the radiant Thoughts
That beam cælestial on his passing Soul,
Th'unfading Crowns awaiting him above,
Th'exalting Plaudit of the great Supreme,
Who in his Actions with Complacence views
His own reflected Image. Then descend
Tho' to a lower, yet a noble Scene;
Paint the just Honours to his Relicts paid,
Shew grateful Millions weeping o'er his Grave;
While his fair Fame in each progressive Age
For ever brightens; and the Wise and Good
Of every Land in universal Choir
With richest Incense of undying Praise
His Urn encircle, to the wondering World
His num'rous Triumphs blazon; while with Awe,
With filial Rev'rence in his Steps they tread,
And copying every Virtue, every Fame,
Transplant his Glories into second Life,
And with unsparing Hand make Nations blest
By his Example. Vast, immense Rewards!
For all the Turmoils which th'heroic Mind
Encounters here. Yet,
Britons
, are ye cold,
Yet deaf to Glory, Virtue, and the Call
Of your dear, wrong'd, insulted Country?—No,
I see ye are not; ev'ry Bosom glows
With native Greatness, and in all its State
The
British
Spirit rises: Glorious Change!
Fame, Virtue, Freedom, welcome! O! forgive
The Muse that ardent in her sacred Cause
Your Glory question'd: She beholds with Joy,
She owns, she triumphs, in her wish'd Mistake.
See! from her Sea-beat Throne in awful March
Britannia
tow'rs; upon her Laurel'd Crest
The Plumes majestic nod; behold! she heaves
Her Guardian Shield, and terrible in Arms
For Battle shakes her adamantine Spear:
Loud at her Foot the
British
Lion roars,
Frighting the Nations; haughty
Spain
full soon
Shall hear and tremble. Go then,
Britons
, forth,
Your Country's daring Champions; tell your Foes,
Tell them in Thunders o'er their bending Land
You were not born for Slaves: Let all your Deeds
Shew that the Sons of those immortal Men,
The Stars of shining Story, are not slow
In Honour's Path to emulate their Sires,
T'assert their Country's Rights, to guard her Sons,
To hurl the Bolts of Justice on her Foes,
And with new Laurels Crown the
British
Fame.
poem by Mark Akenside
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On The Death Of Mr Aikman
Oh, could I draw, my friend, thy genuine mind,
Just as the living forms by thee designed;
Of Raphael's figures none should fairer shine,
Nor Titian's colours longer last than mine.
A mind in wisdom old, in lenience young,
From fervent truth where every virtue sprung;
Where all was real, modest, plain, sincere;
Worth above show, and goodness unsevere.
Viewed round and round, as lucid diamonds throw
Still as you turn them a revolving glow,
So did his mind reflect with secret ray,
In various virtues, Heaven's internal day;
Whether in high discourse it soared sublime,
And sprung impatient o'er the bounds of Time,
Or wandering nature through with raptured eye,
Adored the hand that turned yon azure sky;
Whether to social life he bent his thought,
And the right poise of mingling passions sought
Gay converse blessed; or in the thoughtful grove
Bid the heart open every source of love;
New varying lights still set before your eyes
The just, the good, the social, or the wise.
For such a death who can, who would refuse
The friend a tear, a verse the mournful muse?
Yet pay we just acknowledgment to heaven,
Though snatched so soon, that Aikman e'er was given.
A friend, when dead, is but removed from sight,
Hid in the lustre of eternal light;
Oft with the mind he wonted converse keeps
In the lone walk, or when the body sleeps
Lets in a wandering ray, and all elate
Wings and attracts her to another state;
And, when the parting storms of life are o'er,
May yet rejoin him in a happier shore.
As those we love, decay, we die in part,
String after string is severed from the heart;
Till loosened life at last - but breathing clay,
Without one pang, is gald to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,
Dragged lingering on from partial death to death;
And dying, all he can resign is breath.
poem by James Thomson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Do Not Hate.....
I hate the way you drive me mad
And the way my head won't shut
I hate that you can make me glad
And the burning that won't cut
I hate the way you made me fall]
And how myself i found
I hate my mobile when you call
I hate that stupid sound
I hate the way my heart shivers
The time you call my cell
I hate that thoughts flow like rivers
Inside my head is hell
I hate the way you read my mind
I hate what you make me feel
I hate how I've become this blind
I hate that you are real
I hate it how you stole my pride
I hate that I admit
I hate the way I boil inside
And how my heart you lit
I hate to think that you are small
I hate to think you're not
I hate to think that above all
I might not get a shot
I hate the things you make me do
And how you make me shove
I hate that i do not hate you
I hate it might be love...