To His Royal Highness The Prince Of Wales
While secret-leaguing nations frown around,
Ready to pour the long-expected storm;
While she, who wont the restless Gaul to bound,
Britannia, drooping, grows an empty form;
While on our vitals selfish parties prey,
And deep corruption eats our soul away;
Yet in the Goddess of the Main appears
A gleam of joy, gay-flushing every grace,
As she the cordial voice of millions hears,
Rejoicing, zealous, o'er thy rising race:
Straight her rekindling eyes resume their fire,
The Virtues smile, the Muses tune the lyre.
But more enchanting than the Muse's song,
United Britons thy dear offspring hail;
The city triumphs through her glowing throng,
The shepherd tells his transport to the dale;
The sons of roughest toil forget their pain,
And the glad sailor cheers the midnight main.
Can aught from fair Augusta's gentle blood,
And thine, thou friend of liberty! be born;
Can aught save what is lovely, generous, good;
What will, at once, defend us, and adorn?
From thence, prophetic joy! new Edwards eyes,
New Henries, Annas, and Elizas rise.
May fate my fond devoted days extend,
To sing the promised glories of thy reign!
What though, by years depressed, my muse might bend,
My heart will teach her still a nobler strain:
How, with recovered Britain, will she soar,
When France insults, and Spain shall rob no more.
poem by James Thomson
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Rule Britannia
When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves."
The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall:
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves."
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful, from each foreign stroke:
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves."
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down,
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe, and thy renown.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves."
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves."
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves."
poem by James Thomson
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America
OH mother of a mighty race,
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
Admire and hate thy blooming years.
With words of shame
And taunts of scorn they join thy name.
For on thy cheeks the glow is spread
That tints thy morning hills with red;
Thy step—the wild deer’s rustling feet
Within thy woods are not more fleet;
Thy hopeful eye
Is bright as thine own sunny sky.
Ay, let them rail—those haughty ones,
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.
They do not know how loved thou art,
How many a fond and fearless heart
Would rise to throw
Its life between thee and the foe.
They know not, in their hate and pride,
What virtues with thy children bide;
How true, how good, thy graceful maids
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades;
What generous men
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;—
What cordial welcomes greet the guest
By thy lone rivers of the West;
How faith is kept, and truth revered,
And man is loved, and God is feared,
In woodland homes,
And where the ocean border foams.
There ’s freedom at thy gates and rest
For Earth’s down-trodden and opprest,
A shelter for the hunted head,
For the starved laborer toil and bread.
Power, at thy bounds,
Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.
Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow
Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
Deep in the brightness of the skies
The thronging years in glory rise,
And, as they fleet,
Drop strength and riches at thy feet.
Thine eye, with every coming hour,
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower;
And when thy sisters, elder born,
Would brand thy name with words of scorn,
Before thine eye,
Upon their lips the taunt shall die.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Australasia
Celestial poesy! whose genial sway
Earth's furthest habitable shores obey;
Whose inspirations shed their sacred light,
Far as the regions of the Arctic night,
And to the Laplander his Boreal gleam
Endear not less than Phoebus' brighter beam, --
Descend thou also on my native land,
And on some mountain-summit take thy stand;
Thence issuing soon a purer font be seen
Than charmed Castalia or famed Hippocrene;
And there a richer, nobler fane arise,
Than on Parnassus met the adoring eyes.
And tho', bright goddess, on the far blue hills,
That pour their thousand swift pellucid rills
Where Warragamba's rage has rent in twain
Opposing mountains, thundering to the plain,
No child of song has yet invoked thy aid
'Neath their primeval solitary shade, --
Still, gracious Pow'r, some kindling soul inspire,
To wake to life my country's unknown lyre,
That from creation's date has slumbering lain,
Or only breathed some savage uncouth strain;
And grant that yet an Austral Milton's song
Pactolus-like flow deep and rich along, --
An Austral Shakespeare rise, whose living page
To nature true may charm in ev'ry age; --
And that an Austral Pindar daring soar,
Where not the Theban eagle reach'd before.
And, O Britannia! shouldst thou cease to ride
Despotic Empress of old Ocean's tide; --
Should thy tamed Lion -- spent his former might, --
No longer roar the terror of the fight; --
Should e'er arrive that dark disastrous hour,
When bow'd by luxury, thou yield'st to pow'r; --
When thou, no longer freest of the free,
To some proud victor bend'st the vanquish'd knee; --
May all thy glories in another sphere
Relume, and shine more brightly still than here;
May this, thy last-born infant, then arise,
To glad thy heart and greet thy parent eyes;
And Australasia float, with flag unfurl'd,
A new Britannia in another world.
poem by William Charles Wentworth
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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
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Elegy III. On the Untimely Death of a Certain Learned Acquainance
If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbrous frame,
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies;
Whilst heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.
When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful Muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.
He little knew the sly penurious art;
That odious art which Fortune's favourites know:
Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart,
But envious Fate forbade him to bestow.
He little knew to ward the secret wound;
He little knew that mortals could ensnare:
Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found
To sing her glories, and to paint her fair.
Ill was he skill'd to guide his wandering sheep;
And unforeseen disaster thinn'd his fold;
Yet at another's loss the swain would weep;
And, for his friend, his very crook was sold.
Ye sons of Wealth! protect the Muses' train;
From winds protect them, and with food supply:
Ah! helpless they, to ward the threaten'd pain,
The meagre famine, and the wintry sky!
He loved a nymph; amidst his slender store
He dared to love, and Cynthia was his theme:
He breathed his plaints along the rocky shore;
They only echo'd o'er the winding stream!
His nymph was fair! the sweetest bud that blows
Revives less lovely from the recent shower;
So Philomel enamour'd eyes the rose
Sweet bird! enamour'd of the sweetest flower.
He loved the Muse; she taught him to complain;
He saw his timorous loves on her depend:
He loved the Muse, although she taught in vain;
He loved the Muse, for she was Virtue's friend.
She guides the foot that treads on Parian floors;
She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain;
She tempts Patricians from the fatal doors
Of Vice's brothel, forth to Virtue's fane.
He wish'd for wealth, for much he wish'd to give;
He grieved that virtue might not wealth obtain:
Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve,
The pensive prospect sadden'd all his strain.
I saw him faint! I saw him sink to rest!
Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng;
As though the Virtues had not warm'd his breast,
As though the Muses not inspired his tongue.
I saw his bier ignobly cross the plain;
Saw peasant hands the pious rite supply:
The generous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain,
But Power and Wealth's unvarying cheek was dry!
Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn!
Where were ye then, ye powerful Patrons, where?
Would ye the purple should your limbs adorn?
Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.
poem by William Shenstone
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The Faithful Few: An Ode
While Pow'r triumphant bears unrival'd Sway,
Propt by the Aid of all-prevailing Gold;
While bold Corruption blasts the Face of Day,
And Men, in Herds, are offer'd to be sold;
Select, Urania, from the venal Throng,
The Faithful Few, to grace the deathless Song!
To thee, chaste Nymph, by Jove and Fate, is giv'n
The sacred Charge of the Celestial Bays;
Thou raisest Heroes to their native Heav'n,
And point'st the Objects of eternal Praise.
And in thy Records, dear to future Fame,
Each Son of Liberty inscribes his Name.
When o'er a Nation Fraud and Guilt prevail,
And, fafe, all Question and Enquiry shun,
Thine is the impartial Sword,-and thine the Scale
To weigh the Crime, and make the Actors known:
From Britain's Eyes the deadly Mist to cast,
And bid her waken, lest she sleep her last!
Begin, bright Goddess, the celestial Strain;
To lofty Notes accord the tuneful Lyre:
Almeria shall lead on the shining Train,
Whose Looks the Love of Liberty inspire.
Let lower Beauties fetter those who fee;
None should behold a Pallas, but the Free.
So when great Juno came near Latium's Land,
Detain'd, by Fate, the Guardian Vessel stood,
No human Force could make it touch the Strand,
Fix'd, it remain'd, in Tyber's rapid Flood,
Till one bright Vestal, (such is Virtue's Pow'r!)
Dissolv'd the Charm, and drew the Gift on Shore.
Nor less the Chief, whom, bless'd in Myra's Charms,
The sacred Love of Liberty inspires;
Whose generous Breast the same great Passion warms,
That brightly glow'd in his Heroic Sires.
How justly are the Patriot-Names ally'd,
How softly pair'd, a Douglas and a Hyde.
See Hamilton, with Lustre, next appear,
A Prince descended from a Royal Race.
Behold his easy Mien, and graceful Air;
What noble Freedom triumphs in his Face?
Bright may his Virtues ever be confest,
As the fair Star that guards his Patriot Breast.
Descended from an ancient faithful Line,
Assume, Montrose, thy undisputed Place.
Who doubts the Virtues of thy Race are thine,
May read a Confutation in thy Face:
Where Grandeur is with Goodness temper'd seen;
Soft Beams of Light, that shew the Day within.
Nor shall the Muse, great Ker, thy Name conceal,
Admir'd in Counsels, as in Arts polite;
Till Knowledge sink, and publick Spirit fail,
Thy Merit shall appear in all its Light.
Still may the Azure Band embrace thy Knee,
Evil to him that Evil thinks of thee.
But who approaches next Urania's View,
Sedate, with calm and philosophick Air?
Soon, Tweeddale, must the Muse acknowledge you,
In Youth a Sage, in Grandeur still sincere;
The Friend of Men. Continue, with Applause,
The firm Assertor of your Country's Cause.
Nor thou, the Pride of thy illustrious Race,
Round whom united Virtues form a Day!
Shall in the fair Procession want thy Place.
The Courts no longer shed their tinsel Ray.
In Britain's Annals shall a Rothes shine
Amongst the foremost Heroes of his Line.
Buchan, to Truth and sacred Honour just!
The Muse with Pride thy Title would repeat
Who rather than betray a Nation's Trust,
Unblemish'd chose with Glory to retreat;
Thine shall the Praise remain-when Life is done,
And all the Sons of Slavery sleep unknown.
Mild Haddington, whose Breast's with Learning fraught,
Receive the Tribute of unpurchas'd Praise;
Thine is the Honour to retire unbought,
And persevere in Virtue's sacred Ways!
Nor less becomes the Man the Muses love,
And all the Friends of Liberty approve.
Great Aberdeen, whose penetrating Sight,
Thro' ministerial Cobwebs well can spy;
Can bring the Depths of State-Deceit to Light,
The Muse unnotic'd must not pass you by:
Tho' Britain's Senate hears your Sense no more,
Your Country still regards you as before.
Marchmont, whose Wisdom different Courts have found,
Whose freeborn Soul has never chang'd its State;
For Knowledge fam'd, and Eloquence renown'd,
In whom the honest Statesman shines compleat!
Accept this Homage which the Muses pay,
And still deserve Applause the Patriot-Way!
But oh! if Worth exalts the Pride of Blood,
If Virtue can the Blaze of Courts outshine!
The Muse beholds a Man both great and good;
The blended Wreaths, immortal Stair, are thine!
And like the Spartan Chief's Retreat of old,
With equal Glory shall thine own be told!
Nor thou, unblemish'd Peer! whose steady Soul
Corruption's bold Assaults, unmov'd, defy'd;
Sustain'd the Shock, collected firm and whole,
And kept inflexible the juster Side.
Still, Elphinstone, preserve the spotless Name,
And leave the fair Example dear to Fame!
These are the Chiefs our hardy Climate breeds,
That, deaf to Interest's or Ambition's Charms,
Can shew, by greatly meritorious Deeds,
How much the sacred Love of Freedom warms:
Souls made like these deserve a Pindar's Strain,
Whom Crowns would tempt to Ill, but tempt in vain!
To These, nor want we Patriot Names to join
Souls uncorrupt, tho' in a lower Sphere;
Who slight the Charms of either India's Mine,
And make a Nation's Happiness their Care!
While firm, oppos'd, the powerful Flood they stand,
And risque themselves to save a sinking Land.
Such the Dalrymples, Father and the Son,
Whose virtuous Minds no servile Chains can wear;
Such Erskine is, who laid the Purple down,
Whom Britain's Senate shall with Pleasure hear:
And He, who now retires, with Honour crown'd,
To the soft Cares of his Paternal Ground.
Nor shall the Muse, Dundas, omit thy Name,
Who, fearless, in the Face of Pow'r and Pride,
Has dar'd the Rights of Britain to sustain,
And joyn the Juster, but unequal Side.
In thee the Roman Orator appears,
And all his Virtues shine, without his Fears.
Such are the Spirits firm to LIBERTY,
That with their Influence bless our Northern Coast.
So the bright Planets gild a wint'ry Sky,
And shine serenest in the chilling Frost!
Unnumber'd Stars around their Passage glow,
And serve to chear the darken'd World below.
When Britain's present Ague-Fit is past,
When safe she sits amidst her subject Seas,
These Names shall dear to future Ages last,
And Time shall gild them with his latest Rays.
Virtue shall triumph, over Envy's Spite.
Clouds are but Foils, to make us love the Light.
FINIS
poem by William Hamilton
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Sonnet 38:
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
poem by William Shakespeare
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To S. M. A Young African Painter, On Seeing His Works
TO show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,
And thought in living characters to paint,
When first thy pencil did those beauties give,
And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,
How did those prospects give my soul delight,
A new creation rushing on my sight?
Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue,
On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:
Still may the painter's and the poet's fire
To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!
And may the charms of each seraphic theme
Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!
High to the blissful wonders of the skies
Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.
Thrice happy, when exalted to survey
That splendid city, crown'd with endless day,
Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:
Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring.
Calm and serene thy moments glide along,
And may the muse inspire each future song!
Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd,
May peace with balmy wings your soul invest!
But when these shades of time are chas'd away,
And darkness ends in everlasting day,
On what seraphic pinions shall we move,
And view the landscapes in the realms above?
There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow,
And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow:
No more to tell of Damon's tender sighs,
Or rising radiance of Aurora's eyes,
For nobler themes demand a nobler strain,
And purer language on th' ethereal plain.
Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night
Now seals the fair creation from my sight.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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To Sophia (Miss Stacey)
I.
Thou art fair, and few are fairer
Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean;
They are robes that fit the wearer--
Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion
Ever falls and shifts and glances
As the life within them dances.
II.
Thy deep eyes, a double Planet,
Gaze the wisest into madness
With soft clear fire,--the winds that fan it
Are those thoughts of tender gladness
Which, like zephyrs on the billow,
Make thy gentle soul their pillow.
III.
If, whatever face thou paintest
In those eyes, grows pale with pleasure,
If the fainting soul is faintest
When it hears thy harp’s wild measure,
Wonder not that when thou speakest
Of the weak my heart is weakest.
IV.
As dew beneath the wind of morning,
As the sea which whirlwinds waken,
As the birds at thunder’s warning,
As aught mute yet deeply shaken,
As one who feels an unseen spirit
Is my heart when thine is near it.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Sonnet 38: How can my Muse want subject to invent
How can my Muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Australian Anthem
Maker of earth and sea,
What shall we render Thee?
All things are Thine!
Ours but from day to day
Still with one heart to pray,
“God bless our land alway,”
This land of Thine.
Mighty in brotherhood,
Mighty for God and good,
Let us be Thine.
Here let the nations see
Toil from the curse set free,
Labour and Liberty
One cause—and Thine.
Here let glad Plenty reign;
Here let none seek in vain
Our help and Thine—
No heart for want of friend
Fail ere the timely end,
But love for ever blend
Man's cause and Thine
Here let Thy peace abide;
Never may strife divide
This land of Thine.
Let us united stand,
One great Australian band,
Heart to heart, hand in hand,
Heart and hand Thine
Strong to defend our right,
Proud in all nations' sight,
Lowly in Thine—
One in all noble fame,
Still be our path the same,
Onward in Freedom's name,
Upward in Thine
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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To Lady Firebrace
At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
So long renown'd in B-n's deathless strain?
Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire
Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre:
For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a
Muse and Grace
.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Ode X: To Thomas Edwards, Esquire: On The Late Edition Of Mr. Pope's Work
I.
Believe me, Edwards, to restrain
The licence of a railer's tongue
Is what but seldom men obtain
By sense or wit, by prose or song:
A task for more Herculean powers,
Nor suited to the sacred hours
Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.
II.
In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides:
Fair fame attends, and wisdom calm
Her eloquence harmonious guides:
While, shut for ever from her gate,
Oft trying, still repining, wait
Fierce envy and calumnious hate.
III.
Who then from her delightful bounds
Would step one moment forth to heed
What impotent and savage sounds
From their unhappy mouths proceed?
No: rather Spenser's lyre again
Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonor'd shade complain.
IV.
Tell how displeas'd was every bard,
When lately in the Elysian grove
They of his Muse's guardian heard,
His delegate to fame above;
And what with one accord they said
Of wit in drooping age misled,
And Warburton's officious aid:
V.
How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate
To that melodious lyre assign'd
Beneath a tutor who so late
With Midas and his rout combin'd
By spiteful clamor to confound
That very lyre's enchanting sound,
Though listening realms admir'd around:
VI.
How Horace own'd he thought the fire
Of his friend Pope's satiric line
Did farther fuel scarce require
From such a militant divine:
How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain
Who durst approach his hallow'd strain
With unwash'd hands and lips profane.
VII.
Then Shakespear debonnair and mild
Brought that strange comment forth to view;
Conceits more deep, he said and smil'd,
Than his own fools or madmen knew:
But thank'd a generous friend above,
Who did with free adventurous love
Such pageants from his tomb remove.
VIII.
And if to Pope, in equal need,
The same kind office thou would'st pay,
Then, Edwards, all the band decreed
That future bards with frequent lay
Should call on thy auspicious name,
From each absurd intruder's claim
To keep inviolate their fame.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Sent To Mr. Haley, On Reading His Epistles On Epic Poetry
What blooming garlands shall the Muses twine,
What verdant laurels weave, what flowers combine,
To crown their favorite Son whose generous heart
Has check'd the arrogance of Critic Art,
And shewn that still in their exhaustless mine
The purest gems of radiant Genius shine,
To grace the venturous Poets who explore
The unsun'd treasures of their sacred store?
Nor this the Syren note of flattering praise,
Or the fond tribute partial friendship pays;
A voice unknown to fame, to thee unknown,
But wak'd by thy superior worth alone,
Attempts, perhaps with too officious zeal,
Thy thoughts awhile from higher cares to steal,
And in presumptuous numbers dares essay
To hail the glories of thy matchless lay.
O fairest hope of Britain's tuneful Choir!
Why yield to other hands the Epic Wire?
Say who of all her Bards like thee shall swell
To strains of extasy th' Heroic shell?
When the long series of connecting rhime
Denies the raptur'd flight or march sublime
Who shall the interval so well beguile
With each rich ornament of polish'd style?
Who o'er the thrilling heart such forms shall throw
Of frantic horror, or pathetic woe?
Or when the notes from Freedom's clarion blown
Chill the pale Despot on his trembling throne,
What manly son of Britain's warbling throng
Shall join the Pæan with so bold a song?
And if inventive Fancy love to stray
'Mid the wild tracts of Fiction's faery way,
Say who shall mate those magic powers that stole
The nightly vision o'er Serena's soul?
Then let, illustrious Bard!—though rude her voice,
A Muse of humble mien divert thy choice.—
With timid hand snatch no reflected grace
From the sweet Maniac of Hesperian race.
Since Genius' keenest rays thy bosom fire
O strike with native force the British Lyre,
That, while such virtuous chiefs adorn thy strain
As Greece and Rome shall emulate in vain,
Albion may consecrate thy deathless name,
And found her Epic pride on Hayley's fame.
poem by Henry James Pye
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The Sky-Lark’s Song
WINGED voice to tell the skies of earth,
Dear earth-born lark, sing on, sing clear,
Sing into heaven that she may hear
;Sing what thou wilt, so she but know
Thine ecstasy of summer mirth
And think ''Tis from the world below!'
Instant, old wont returns fresh brought,
And her desire goes seeking me,
For whom her whole world used to be
And all my world for sake of her;
She cannot think an earthward thought
That shall not seem my messenger.
She will be glad for love, and smile,
Saying 'Thank God for joy like ours:
Saying 'There come the kind home hours:
His work-day will be sped ere long,
That keeps him hence this little while.
'Sing, lark, until she know thy song.
Sing of the earth, but sing no care,
Sing thine own measureless content;
She will remember what it meant;
Griefs are too base, but, carolling thus,
Thou with thy joy mayst reach her there,
And she joy too remembering us.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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To A Lady In The Spleen
Why, lovely Lelia, so depress'd?
With wonted Smiles your Eyes adorn;
Drive gloomy Sorrow from your Breast,
And shine out, beauteous, as the Morn.
The fair Pendarvis bid me try,
For you to tune my Lyre again;
To your lov'd Presence instant fly,
And sooth you with some joyous Strain.
But if Pendarvis, born to please,
Does in her native Province fail,
Nor can your anxious Bosom ease;
Alas! how should my Muse prevail?
Shall Heav'n, that form'd thee wond'rous fair,
Behold thee thus repining lie?
Dependent on that Guardian Care,
To blissful Prospects turn your Eye.
Lelia, thy lovely Form survey;
Let blooming Beauty plead her Cause:
Her pow'rful Empire fleets away
Too soon, alas! by Nature's Laws.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Chamois Hunter's Love
Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois bounds;
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds;
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air,
And where the Lauwine's peal is heart - Hunter! thy heart is there!
I know thou lovest me well, dear friend! but better, better far,
Thou lovest that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war;
In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine,
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!
And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights,
With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights;
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine,
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!
And I will leave my blessed home, my father's joyous hearth,
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth,
With all the kind and laughing eyes that in its firelight shine,
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou art mine!
It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart,
That I cast away for thee - for thee, all reckless as thou art!
With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind myself to dwell,
Yet, yet I would not change that lot, oh no! I love too well!
A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou,
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow.
Mournful! - but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride,
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside.
To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath,
To watch through long long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of death,
To wake in doubt and loneliness - this doom I know is mine
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!
That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when thence thou comest at last,
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each danger past,
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee aid divine -
For this I will be thine, my love! for this I will be thine!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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His Excellency General Washington
Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light,
Columbia's scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring's fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven's revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!
The Goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel binds Her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber'd charms and recent graces rise.
Muse! Bow propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates,
As when Eolus heaven's fair face deforms,
Enwrapp'd in tempest and a night of storms;
Astonish'd ocean feels the wild uproar,
The refluent surges beat the sounding shore;
Or think as leaves in Autumn's golden reign,
Such, and so many, moves the warrior's train.
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl'd the ensign waves in air.
Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know'st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in peace and honors—we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Fam'd for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
Hear every tongue thy guardian aid implore!
One century scarce perform'd its destined round,
When Gallic powers Columbia's fury found;
And so may you, whoever dares disgrace
The land of freedom's heaven-defended race!
Fix'd are the eyes of nations on the scales,
For in their hopes Columbia's arm prevails.
Anon Britannia droops the pensive head,
While round increase the rising hills of dead.
Ah! Cruel blindness to Columbia's state!
Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late.
Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev'ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! Be thine.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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To Maecenas
MAECENAS, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.
What felt those poets but you feel the same?
Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?
Their noble strains your equal genius shares
In softer language, and diviner airs.
While Homer paints, lo! circumfus'd in air,
Celestial Gods in mortal forms appear;
Swift as they move hear each recess rebound,
Heav'n quakes, earth trembles, and the shores resound.
Great Sire of verse, before my mortal eyes,
The lightnings blaze across the vaulted skies,
And, as the thunder shakes the heav'nly plains,
A deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.
When gentler strains demand thy graceful song,
The length'ning line moves languishing along.
When great Patroclus courts Achilles' aid,
The grateful tribute of my tears is paid;
Prone on the shore he feels the pangs of love,
And stern Pelides tend'rest passions move.
Great Maro's strain in heav'nly numbers flows,
The Nine inspire, and all the bosom glows.
O could I rival thine and Virgil's page,
Or claim the Muses with the Mantuan Sage;
Soon the same beauties should my mind adorn,
And the same ardors in my soul should burn:
Then should my song in bolder notes arise,
And all my numbers pleasingly surprise;
But here I sit, and mourn a grov'ling mind,
That fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.
Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,
Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home;
When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,
They fan in you the bright immortal fire,
But I less happy, cannot raise the song,
The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.
The happier Terence* all the choir inspir'd,
His soul replenish'd, and his bosom fir'd;
But say, ye Muses, why this partial grace,
To one alone of Afric's sable race;
From age to age transmitting thus his name
With the finest glory in the rolls of fame?
Thy virtues, great Maecenas! shall be sung
In praise of him, from whom those virtues sprung:
While blooming wreaths around thy temples spread,
I'll snatch a laurel from thine honour'd head,
While you indulgent smile upon the deed.
*He was an African by birth.
As long as Thames in streams majestic flows,
Or Naiads in their oozy beds repose
While Phoebus reigns above the starry train
While bright Aurora purples o'er the main,
So long, great Sir, the muse thy praise shall sing,
So long thy praise shal' make Parnassus ring:
Then grant, Maecenas, thy paternal rays,
Hear me propitious, and defend my lays.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Prayer XXIII
Then a priestess said, "Speak to us of Prayer."
And he answered, saying:
You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might pray also in the fullness of your joy and in your days of abundance.
For what is prayer but the expansion of yourself into the living ether?
And if it is for your comfort to pour your darkness into space, it is also for your delight to pour forth the dawning of your heart.
And if you cannot but weep when your soul summons you to prayer, she should spur you again and yet again, though weeping, until you shall come laughing.
When you pray you rise to meet in the air those who are praying at that very hour, and whom save in prayer you may not meet.
Therefore let your visit to that temple invisible be for naught but ecstasy and sweet communion.
For if you should enter the temple for no other purpose than asking you shall not receive.
And if you should enter into it to humble yourself you shall not be lifted:
Or even if you should enter into it to beg for the good of others you shall not be heard.
It is enough that you enter the temple invisible.
I cannot teach you how to pray in words.
God listens not to your words save when He Himself utters them through your lips.
And I cannot teach you the prayer of the seas and the forests and the mountains.
But you who are born of the mountains and the forests and the seas can find their prayer in your heart,
And if you but listen in the stillness of the night you shall hear them saying in silence,
"Our God, who art our winged self, it is thy will in us that willeth.
It is thy desire in us that desireth.
It is thy urge in us that would turn our nights, which are thine, into days which are thine also.
We cannot ask thee for aught, for thou knowest our needs before they are born in us:
Thou art our need; and in giving us more of thyself thou givest us all."
poem by Khalil Gibran
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