On the Death of Amyntas. A Pastoral Elegy
'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn,
Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn,
When Damon, who designed to pass the day
With hounds and horns, and chase the flying prey,
Rose early from his bed; but soon he found
The welkin pitched with sullen clouds around,
An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground.
Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey
The fields, and curst the ill omens of the day,
He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace:
Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:
He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,
And sent his voice before him from afar.
“Return,” he cried, “return, unhappy swain,
The spongy clouds are filled with gathering rain:
The promise of the day not only crossed,
But even the spring, the spring itself is lost.
Amyntas—oh!”—he could not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guessed.
Equal with heaven young Damon loved the boy,
The boast of nature, both his parents' joy.
His graceful form revolving in his mind;
So great a genius, and a soul so kind,
Gave sad assurance that his fears were true;
Too well the envy of the gods he knew:
For when their gifts too lavishly are placed,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For sure it was too bountiful a dole,
The mother's features, and the father's soul.
Then thus he cried:—“The morn bespoke the news;
The morning did her cheerful light diffuse;
But see how suddenly she changed her face,
And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace;
Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race.
What charms adorned thy youth, where nature smiled,
And more than man was given us in a child!
His infancy was ripe; a soul sublime
In years so tender that prevented time:
Heaven gave him all at once; then snatched away,
Ere mortals all his beauties could survey;
Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day.”
MENALCAS.
The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest,
Reclined his dying head upon her breast.
The mournful family stood all around;
One groan was heard, one universal sound:
All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drowned.
So dire a sadness sat on every look,
Even Death repented he had given the stroke.
He grieved his fatal work had been ordained,
But promised length of life to those who yet remained.
The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had bribed him to prolong their space.
The father bore it with undaunted soul,
Like one who durst his destiny control;
Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Resigned his son, but not resigned his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increasing family!
DAMON.
Such is my wish, and such my prophecy;
For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains;
Long may she exercise her fruitful pains!
But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race
More lasting, and endued with equal grace!
Equal she may, but farther none can go;
For he was all that was exact below.
MENALCAS.
Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud;
Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud?
There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play
About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way.
He cleaves the liquid air; behold, he flies,
And every moment gains upon the skies.
The new-come guest admires the ethereal state,
The sapphire portal, and the golden gate;
And now admitted in the shining throng,
He shows the passport which he brought along.
His passport is his innocence and grace,
Well known to all the natives of the place.
Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire
Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire:
Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;
For, like Amyntas, none is left below.
poem by John Dryden
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The Tears Of Amynta, For The Death Of Damon. A Song
1.
On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sigh'd alone:
From the cheerless dawn of morning
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus she made her moan:
Hope is banish'd,
Joys are vanish'd,
Damon, my beloved, is gone!
2.
Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth and such a lover;
Oh, so true, so kind was he!
Damon was the pride of nature,
Charming in his every feature;
Damon lived alone for me;
Melting kisses,
Murmuring blisses:
Who so lived and loved as we?
3.
Never shall we curse the morning.
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, Love supplying
All the joys he drain'd before:
Death come end me,
To befriend me:
Love and Damon are no more
poem by John Dryden
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A mothers Tear
A mother tear is feel with fear and determination, stress in her voice cause her family face starvation. The longer she fight, the more they starve, so she shares her body with strangers and drugs. Her family ate with the money she made, regret in her voice cause now she have aids, slave to the needle for so many years, the ocean got deeper with so many tears, death was coming and now its hear. The 4 horsemen stood watching while the grim reaper stared. the pain is to strong, she could not bear the angel sung loud she could not hear everything went black can't see clear, her eyes went blank, soul faded away. family heard a beeping noise so all they did was prey. Father in heaven i love her so much, father in heaven she gave up so much, father in heaven i prey for my family and me that the hardships she went through, we won't see. Father in Heaven.
poem by Tyrone Allen
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Eclogue 3: Menalcas Daemoetas Palaemon
MENALCAS
Who owns the flock, Damoetas? Meliboeus?
DAMOETAS
Nay, they are Aegon's sheep, of late by him
Committed to my care.
MENALCAS
O every way
Unhappy sheep, unhappy flock! while he
Still courts Neaera, fearing lest her choice
Should fall on me, this hireling shepherd here
Wrings hourly twice their udders, from the flock
Filching the life-juice, from the lambs their milk.
DAMOETAS
Hold! not so ready with your jeers at men!
We know who once, and in what shrine with you-
The he-goats looked aside- the light nymphs laughed-
MENALCAS
Ay, then, I warrant, when they saw me slash
Micon's young vines and trees with spiteful hook.
DAMOETAS
Or here by these old beeches, when you broke
The bow and arrows of Damon; for you chafed
When first you saw them given to the boy,
Cross-grained Menalcas, ay, and had you not
Done him some mischief, would have chafed to death.
MENALCAS
With thieves so daring, what can masters do?
Did I not see you, rogue, in ambush lie
For Damon's goat, while loud Lycisca barked?
And when I cried, 'Where is he off to now?
Gather your flock together, Tityrus,'
You hid behind the sedges.
DAMOETAS
Well, was he
Whom I had conquered still to keep the goat.
Which in the piping-match my pipe had won!
You may not know it, but the goat was mine.
MENALCAS
You out-pipe him? when had you ever pipe
Wax-welded? in the cross-ways used you not
On grating straw some miserable tune
To mangle?
DAMOETAS
Well, then, shall we try our skill
Each against each in turn? Lest you be loth,
I pledge this heifer; every day she comes
Twice to the milking-pail, and feeds withal
Two young ones at her udder: say you now
What you will stake upon the match with me.
MENALCAS
Naught from the flock I'll venture, for at home
I have a father and a step-dame harsh,
And twice a day both reckon up the flock,
And one withal the kids. But I will stake,
Seeing you are so mad, what you yourself
Will own more priceless far- two beechen cups
By the divine art of Alcimedon
Wrought and embossed, whereon a limber vine,
Wreathed round them by the graver's facile tool,
Twines over clustering ivy-berries pale.
Two figures, one Conon, in the midst he set,
And one- how call you him, who with his wand
Marked out for all men the whole round of heaven,
That they who reap, or stoop behind the plough,
Might know their several seasons? Nor as yet
Have I set lip to them, but lay them by.
DAMOETAS
For me too wrought the same Alcimedon
A pair of cups, and round the handles wreathed
Pliant acanthus, Orpheus in the midst,
The forests following in his wake; nor yet
Have I set lip to them, but lay them by.
Matched with a heifer, who would prate of cups?
MENALCAS
You shall not balk me now; where'er you bid,
I shall be with you; only let us have
For auditor- or see, to serve our turn,
Yonder Palaemon comes! In singing-bouts
I'll see you play the challenger no more.
DAMOETAS
Out then with what you have; I shall not shrink,
Nor budge for any man: only do you,
Neighbour Palaemon, with your whole heart's skill-
For it is no slight matter-play your part.
PALAEMON
Say on then, since on the greensward we sit,
And now is burgeoning both field and tree;
Now is the forest green, and now the year
At fairest. Do you first, Damoetas, sing,
Then you, Menalcas, in alternate strain:
Alternate strains are to the Muses dear.
DAMOETAS
'From Jove the Muse began; Jove filleth all,
Makes the earth fruitful, for my songs hath care.'
MENALCAS
'Me Phoebus loves; for Phoebus his own gifts,
Bays and sweet-blushing hyacinths, I keep.'
DAMOETAS
'Gay Galatea throws an apple at me,
Then hies to the willows, hoping to be seen.'
MENALCAS
'My dear Amyntas comes unasked to me;
Not Delia to my dogs is better known.'
DAMOETAS
'Gifts for my love I've found; mine eyes have marked
Where the wood-pigeons build their airy nests.'
MENALCAS
'Ten golden apples have I sent my boy,
All that I could, to-morrow as many more.'
DAMOETAS
'What words to me, and uttered O how oft,
Hath Galatea spoke! waft some of them,
Ye winds, I pray you, for the gods to hear.'
MENALCAS
'It profiteth me naught, Amyntas mine,
That in your very heart you spurn me not,
If, while you hunt the boar, I guard the nets.'
DAMOETAS
'Prithee, Iollas, for my birthday guest
Send me your Phyllis; when for the young crops
I slay my heifer, you yourself shall come.'
MENALCAS
'I am all hers; she wept to see me go,
And, lingering on the word, 'farewell' she said,
'My beautiful Iollas, fare you well.''
DAMOETAS
'Fell as the wolf is to the folded flock,
Rain to ripe corn, Sirocco to the trees,
The wrath of Amaryllis is to me.'
MENALCAS
'As moisture to the corn, to ewes with young
Lithe willow, as arbute to the yeanling kids,
So sweet Amyntas, and none else, to me.'
DAMOETAS
'My Muse, although she be but country-bred,
Is loved by Pollio: O Pierian Maids,
Pray you, a heifer for your reader feed!'
MENALCAS
'Pollio himself too doth new verses make:
Feed ye a bull now ripe to butt with horn,
And scatter with his hooves the flying sand.'
DAMOETAS
'Who loves thee, Pollio, may he thither come
Where thee he joys beholding; ay, for him
Let honey flow, the thorn-bush spices bear.'
MENALCAS
'Who hates not Bavius, let him also love
Thy songs, O Maevius, ay, and therewithal
Yoke foxes to his car, and he-goats milk.'
DAMOETAS
'You, picking flowers and strawberries that grow
So near the ground, fly hence, boys, get you gone!
There's a cold adder lurking in the grass.'
MENALCAS
'Forbear, my sheep, to tread too near the brink;
Yon bank is ill to trust to; even now
The ram himself, see, dries his dripping fleece!'
DAMOETAS
'Back with the she-goats, Tityrus, grazing there
So near the river! I, when time shall serve,
Will take them all, and wash them in the pool.'
MENALCAS
'Boys, get your sheep together; if the heat,
As late it did, forestall us with the milk,
Vainly the dried-up udders shall we wring.'
DAMOETAS
'How lean my bull amid the fattening vetch!
Alack! alack! for herdsman and for herd!
It is the self-same love that wastes us both.'
MENALCAS
'These truly- nor is even love the cause-
Scarce have the flesh to keep their bones together
Some evil eye my lambkins hath bewitched.'
DAMOETAS
'Say in what clime- and you shall be withal
My great Apollo- the whole breadth of heaven
Opens no wider than three ells to view.'
MENALCAS
'Say in what country grow such flowers as bear
The names of kings upon their petals writ,
And you shall have fair Phyllis for your own.'
PALAEMON
Not mine betwixt such rivals to decide:
You well deserve the heifer, so does he,
With all who either fear the sweets of love,
Or taste its bitterness. Now, boys, shut off
The sluices, for the fields have drunk their fill.
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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A Pastoral Between Thirsis And Corydon, Upon The Death Of Damon, By Whom Is Meant Mr. W. Riddell
Thir.
Say, tell me true, what is the doleful cause
That Corydon is not the man he was?
Your cheerful presence used to lighten cares,
And from the plains to banish gloomy fears.
Whene'er unto the circling swains you sung
Our ravish'd souls upon the music hung;
The gazing, listening flocks forgot their meat,
While vocal grottos did your lays repeat:
But now your gravity our mirth rebukes,
And in your downcast and desponding looks
Appears some fatal and impending woe;
I fear to ask, and yet desire to know.
Cor.
The doleful news, how shall I, Thirsis, tell!
In blooming youth the hapless Damon fell:
He's dead, he's dead, and with him all my joy;
The mournful thought does all gay forms destroy:
This is the cause of my unusual grief,
Which sullenly admits of no relief.
Thir.
Begone all mirth! begone all sports and play,
To a deluge of grief and tears give way.
Damon the just, the generous, and the young,
Must Damon's worth and merit be unsung?
No, Corydon, the wondrous youth you knew
How as in years so he in virtue grew;
Embalm his fame in never dying verse,
As a just tribute to his doleful hearse.
Cor.
Assist me, mighty grief, my breast inspire
With generous heats and with thy wildest fire,
While in a solemn and a mournful strain
Of Damon gone for ever I complain.
Ye muses, weep; your mirth and songs forbear,
And for him sigh and shed a friendly tear;
He was your favourite, and by your aid
In charming verse his witty thoughts array'd;
He had of knowledge, learning, wit, a store,
To it denied he still press'd after more.
He was a pious and a virtuous soul,
And still press'd forward to the heavenly goal;
He was a faithful, true, and constant friend,
Faithful, and true, and constant to the end.
Ye flowers, hang down and droop your heads,
No more around your grateful odours spread;
Ye leafy trees, your blooming honours shed,
Damon for ever from your shade is fled;
Fled to the mansions of eternal light,
Where endless wonders strike his happy sight.
Ye birds, be mute, as through the trees you fly,
Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie.
Ye winds, breathe sighs as through the air you rove,
And in sad pomp the trembling branches move.
Ye gliding brooks, O weep your channels dry,
My flowing tears them fully shall supply;
You in soft murmurs may your grief express,
And yours, you swains, in mournful songs compress.
I to some dark and gloomy shade will fly,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend does lie;
And for his death to lonely rocks complain
In mournful accents and a dying strain,
While pining echo answers me again.
poem by James Thomson
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When Cloris heard
When Cloris heard of her Amyntas dying,
She grieved then for her unkind denying:
Oft sighing sore, and with a heart unfeigned,
I die, I die, I die, she thus complained.
Whom, when Amyntas spied,
Then both for joy outcried,
I love, I love sweet Cloris’ eye,
And I Amyntas till I die.
poem by John Wilbye
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Death comes no more, a new life, Arise!
the cooled whispering angels call, persuade my
immortal soul, followed the blitzing light, that
leads to the doorstep of the golden heaven where
wisdom of the spirit lives, an invitation to the
breezing direction of the shadow of life after
death
returning i stand swift like speed of light i run,
just i heard a simple voice that showed the humid
breath i blow, taking me to the sky, where the
angels sing there lullaby, behold! i close my eyes,
in the clouds bluest white droplets of tears i'm wet,
seeing below i saw my mother and father they
cried
sweat of every sweet, i champion, in every eyes
tears it flows, in the new dress i'm happy, the angel
pick me up in the golden sun forward my soul, of
nobody had ever see, in the cloudiest sky we reach
the angel, leave me in the gate i knew i have to stay
leave me not to fall, for the feather in the wings i've
carry is to small, in the table i stand judge me not to
finish, push me not to the wind that blew, in the
darkest air await lonely soul, scattered beneath the
hell that calls
rise and stand my endless adventure, the flaming
light, flashes as it goes, signaling that you have been
there, illuminating that you have come back for a
return in the immortality destiny, a home for
everybody, the eternity where every soul have to rise
again
arise my soul rejuvenate life beyond the shinning
sky; the hell of infinite death leads the victor the
sting of illusion and have conquer the everlasting life
in our midst, and the halos spirit will guide the thorny
life to the fragrance heaven's gate
a new beginning of life is dawning and the heaven is
open...... please come in
' a poem dedicated to Sister Helaria Dumapias
in her journey to the Father's Hand
April 18,2009 '
poem by Antonio Liao
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A Song : On The Green Margin
On the green margin of the brook,
Despairing Phyllida reclined,
Whilst every sigh, and every look,
Declared the anguish of her mind.
Am I less lovely then? (she cries,
And in the waves her form surveyed);
Oh yes, I see my languid eyes,
My faded cheek, my colour fled:
These eyes no more like lightning pierced,
These cheeks grew pale, when Damon first
His Phyllida betrayed.
The rose he in his bosom wore,
How oft upon my breast was seen!
And when I kissed the drooping flower,
Behold, he cried, it blooms again!
The wreaths that bound my braided hair,
Himself next day was proud to wear
At church, or on the green.
While thus sad Phyllida lamented,
Chance brought unlucky Thyrsis on;
Unwillingly the nymph consented,
But Damon first the cheat begun.
She wiped the fallen tears away,
Then sighed and blushed, as who would say
Ah! Thyrsis, I am won.
poem by William Cowper
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Weep Not, My Wanton
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe:
Fortune changèd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies:
Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept;
Mother cried, baby lept;
More he crowed, more we cried;
Nature could not sorrow hide.
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss;
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
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William House and Family
Come all kind friends, both far and near,
Come listen to me and you shall hear --
It's of a family and their fate,
All about them I will relate.
They once did live at Edgerton,
They once did live at Muskegon,
From there they went to Chicago,
Which proved their fatal overthrow.
It was William House's family,
As fine a family as you see --
His family was eleven in all,
I do not think it was very small.
Two children died some years ago,
Before they went to Chicago,
Five children there he had with him,
When death his home there enters in.
The small-pox then was raging there,
And Oh! it would not their house spare,
For all but one was sick of them,
A dreadful house it must have been.
The eldest girl was married then,
The eldest boy was in Michigan,
The second boy he was at home,
And took care of them all alone.
His father and his mother dear,
And dear sister, too, I hear,
Were very sick and in his care,
And no kind friends to help him there:
Two little brothers, and a baby too,
Made six in all -- what could he do,
He had to take care of them all,
The baby, too, was very small.
As he would go to his father's bed,
And try to soothe his aching head,
"My son, I pray you leave me, do
Go take care of poor mother, too."
"Your mother and sister need your care,
And your little infant brother there;
Oh! Charlie, Charlie, take care of them,
My son, do all for them you can."
It seemed as though he did not know
That his poor soul so soon must go,
And leave his little ones he loved,
To go to that bright world above.
But God he called his soul away,
It had to leave, it could not stay --
He never more on earth will be,
His soul is from sin and sorrow free.
Charles helped the sexton, I am told,
To lay his form in the coffin cold --
How sad, how sad, poor soul was he,
When last his father's form did see.
Minnie May House she had to go,
And leave her friends that loved her so --
She was a girl in her teens,
A lovely flower as e'er was seen.
Minnie and her mother lay on one bed,
And when Charles said, "our Minnie is dead,"
His mother then she did grow wild,
And early after knew her child.
They buried Minnie by her father's side,
And left them there where they had died --
Charles took his mother and brothers then
And brought them back to Michigan.
For the mother and the baby too,
Kind friends did all that they could do,
But those poor souls they could not save,
For now they're sleeping in their grave.
Oh! what a noble son was he,
His age was then only sixteen --
Charles House's name I have told before
God bless his soul forever more.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The Price of An Equipage
Servum si potes, Ole, non habere,
Et regem potes, Ole, non habere. Mart.
('If thou from Fortune dost no servant crave,
Believe me thou no master need'st to have.')
I ask'd a friend, amidst the throng,
Whose coach it was that trail'd along?
'The gilded coach there - don't ye mind?
That with the footmen stuck behind.'
'O Sir!' says he, 'what! han't you seen it?
'Tis Damon's Coach, and Damon in it.
'Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot
Your friend, your neighbour, and - what not!
Your old acquaintance Damon!' - 'True;
But faith his Equipage is new.'
'Bless me,' said I, 'where can it end?
That madness has possess'd my friend?
Four powder'd slaves, and those the tallest,
Their stomachs, doubtless, not the smallest!
Can Damon's revenue maintain,
In lace and food, so large a train?
I know his land - each inch of ground -
'Tis not a mile to walk it round -
If Damon's whole estate can bear
To keep his lad and one-horse chair,
I own 'tis past my comprehension.'
'Yes, Sir; but Damon has a pension.'
Thus does a false ambition rule us,
Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us;
To keep a race of flickering knaves,
He grows himself the worst of slaves.
poem by William Shenstone
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Eclogue V
MENALCAS, MOPSUS
Menalcas.
Why, Mopsus, being both together met,
You skilled to breathe upon the slender reeds,
I to sing ditties, do we not sit down
Here where the elm-trees and the hazels blend?
Mopsus.
You are the elder, 'tis for me to bide
Your choice, Menalcas, whether now we seek
Yon shade that quivers to the changeful breeze,
Or the cave's shelter. Look you how the cave
Is with the wild vine's clusters over-laced!
Menalcas.
None but Amyntas on these hills of ours
Can vie with you.
Mopsus.
What if he also strive
To out-sing Phoebus?
Menalcas.
Do you first begin,
Good Mopsus, whether minded to sing aught
Of Phyllis and her loves, or Alcon's praise,
Or to fling taunts at Codrus. Come, begin,
While Tityrus watches o'er the grazing kids.
Mopsus.
Nay, then, I will essay what late I carved
On a green beech-tree's rind, playing by turns,
And marking down the notes; then afterward
Bid you Amyntas match them if he can.
Menalcas.
As limber willow to pale olive yields,
As lowly Celtic nard to rose-buds bright,
So, to my mind, Amyntas yields to you.
But hold awhile, for to the cave we come.
Mopsus.
'For Daphnis cruelly slain wept all the Nymphs-
Ye hazels, bear them witness, and ye streams-
When she, his mother, clasping in her arms
The hapless body of the son she bare,
To gods and stars unpitying, poured her plaint.
Then, Daphnis, to the cooling streams were none
That drove the pastured oxen, then no beast
Drank of the river, or would the grass-blade touch.
Nay, the wild rocks and woods then voiced the roar
Of Afric lions mourning for thy death.
Daphnis, 'twas thou bad'st yoke to Bacchus' car
Armenian tigresses, lead on the pomp
Of revellers, and with tender foliage wreathe
The bending spear-wands. As to trees the vine
Is crown of glory, as to vines the grape,
Bulls to the herd, to fruitful fields the corn,
So the one glory of thine own art thou.
When the Fates took thee hence, then Pales' self,
And even Apollo, left the country lone.
Where the plump barley-grain so oft we sowed,
There but wild oats and barren darnel spring;
For tender violet and narcissus bright
Thistle and prickly thorn uprear their heads.
Now, O ye shepherds, strew the ground with leaves,
And o'er the fountains draw a shady veil-
So Daphnis to his memory bids be done-
And rear a tomb, and write thereon this verse:
'I, Daphnis in the woods, from hence in fame
Am to the stars exalted, guardian once
Of a fair flock, myself more fair than they.''
Menalcas.
So is thy song to me, poet divine,
As slumber on the grass to weary limbs,
Or to slake thirst from some sweet-bubbling rill
In summer's heat. Nor on the reeds alone,
But with thy voice art thou, thrice happy boy,
Ranked with thy master, second but to him.
Yet will I, too, in turn, as best I may,
Sing thee a song, and to the stars uplift
Thy Daphnis- Daphnis to the stars extol,
For me too Daphnis loved.
Mopsus.
Than such a boon
What dearer could I deem? the boy himself
Was worthy to be sung, and many a time
Hath Stimichon to me your singing praised.
Menalcas.
'In dazzling sheen with unaccustomed eyes
Daphnis stands rapt before Olympus' gate,
And sees beneath his feet the clouds and stars.
Wherefore the woods and fields, Pan, shepherd-folk,
And Dryad-maidens, thrill with eager joy;
Nor wolf with treacherous wile assails the flock,
Nor nets the stag: kind Daphnis loveth peace.
The unshorn mountains to the stars up-toss
Voices of gladness; ay, the very rocks,
The very thickets, shout and sing, 'A god,
A god is he, Menalcas 'Be thou kind,
Propitious to thine own. Lo! altars four,
Twain to thee, Daphnis, and to Phoebus twain
For sacrifice, we build; and I for thee
Two beakers yearly of fresh milk afoam,
And of rich olive-oil two bowls, will set;
And of the wine-god's bounty above all,
If cold, before the hearth, or in the shade
At harvest-time, to glad the festal hour,
From flasks of Ariusian grape will pour
Sweet nectar. Therewithal at my behest
Shall Lyctian Aegon and Damoetas sing,
And Alphesiboeus emulate in dance
The dancing Satyrs. This, thy service due,
Shalt thou lack never, both when we pay the Nymphs
Our yearly vows, and when with lustral rites
The fields we hallow. Long as the wild boar
Shall love the mountain-heights, and fish the streams,
While bees on thyme and crickets feed on dew,
Thy name, thy praise, thine honour, shall endure.
Even as to Bacchus and to Ceres, so
To thee the swain his yearly vows shall make;
And thou thereof, like them, shalt quittance claim.'
Mopsus.
How, how repay thee for a song so rare?
For not the whispering south-wind on its way
So much delights me, nor wave-smitten beach,
Nor streams that race adown their bouldered beds.
Menalcas.
First this frail hemlock-stalk to you I give,
Which taught me 'Corydon with love was fired
For fair Alexis,' ay, and this beside,
'Who owns the flock?- Meliboeus?'
Mopsus.
But take you
This shepherd's crook, which, howso hard he begged,
Antigenes, then worthy to be loved,
Prevailed not to obtain- with brass, you see,
And equal knots, Menalcas, fashioned fair!
Eclogue 5: Menalcas Mopsus
MENALCAS
Why, Mopsus, being both together met,
You skilled to breathe upon the slender reeds,
I to sing ditties, do we not sit down
Here where the elm-trees and the hazels blend?
MOPSUS
You are the elder, 'tis for me to bide
Your choice, Menalcas, whether now we seek
Yon shade that quivers to the changeful breeze,
Or the cave's shelter. Look you how the cave
Is with the wild vine's clusters over-laced!
MENALCAS
None but Amyntas on these hills of ours
Can vie with you.
MOPSUS
What if he also strive
To out-sing Phoebus?
MENALCAS
Do you first begin,
Good Mopsus, whether minded to sing aught
Of Phyllis and her loves, or Alcon's praise,
Or to fling taunts at Codrus. Come, begin,
While Tityrus watches o'er the grazing kids.
MOPSUS
Nay, then, I will essay what late I carved
On a green beech-tree's rind, playing by turns,
And marking down the notes; then afterward
Bid you Amyntas match them if he can.
MENALCAS
As limber willow to pale olive yields,
As lowly Celtic nard to rose-buds bright,
So, to my mind, Amyntas yields to you.
But hold awhile, for to the cave we come.
MOPSUS
'For Daphnis cruelly slain wept all the Nymphs-
Ye hazels, bear them witness, and ye streams-
When she, his mother, clasping in her arms
The hapless body of the son she bare,
To gods and stars unpitying, poured her plaint.
Then, Daphnis, to the cooling streams were none
That drove the pastured oxen, then no beast
Drank of the river, or would the grass-blade touch.
Nay, the wild rocks and woods then voiced the roar
Of Afric lions mourning for thy death.
Daphnis, 'twas thou bad'st yoke to Bacchus' car
Armenian tigresses, lead on the pomp
Of revellers, and with tender foliage wreathe
The bending spear-wands. As to trees the vine
Is crown of glory, as to vines the grape,
Bulls to the herd, to fruitful fields the corn,
So the one glory of thine own art thou.
When the Fates took thee hence, then Pales' self,
And even Apollo, left the country lone.
Where the plump barley-grain so oft we sowed,
There but wild oats and barren darnel spring;
For tender violet and narcissus bright
Thistle and prickly thorn uprear their heads.
Now, O ye shepherds, strew the ground with leaves,
And o'er the fountains draw a shady veil-
So Daphnis to his memory bids be done-
And rear a tomb, and write thereon this verse:
'I, Daphnis in the woods, from hence in fame
Am to the stars exalted, guardian once
Of a fair flock, myself more fair than they.''
MENALCAS
So is thy song to me, poet divine,
As slumber on the grass to weary limbs,
Or to slake thirst from some sweet-bubbling rill
In summer's heat. Nor on the reeds alone,
But with thy voice art thou, thrice happy boy,
Ranked with thy master, second but to him.
Yet will I, too, in turn, as best I may,
Sing thee a song, and to the stars uplift
Thy Daphnis- Daphnis to the stars extol,
For me too Daphnis loved.
MOPSUS
Than such a boon
What dearer could I deem? the boy himself
Was worthy to be sung, and many a time
Hath Stimichon to me your singing praised.
MENALCAS
'In dazzling sheen with unaccustomed eyes
Daphnis stands rapt before Olympus' gate,
And sees beneath his feet the clouds and stars.
Wherefore the woods and fields, Pan, shepherd-folk,
And Dryad-maidens, thrill with eager joy;
Nor wolf with treacherous wile assails the flock,
Nor nets the stag: kind Daphnis loveth peace.
The unshorn mountains to the stars up-toss
Voices of gladness; ay, the very rocks,
The very thickets, shout and sing, 'A god,
A god is he, Menalcas 'Be thou kind,
Propitious to thine own. Lo! altars four,
Twain to thee, Daphnis, and to Phoebus twain
For sacrifice, we build; and I for thee
Two beakers yearly of fresh milk afoam,
And of rich olive-oil two bowls, will set;
And of the wine-god's bounty above all,
If cold, before the hearth, or in the shade
At harvest-time, to glad the festal hour,
From flasks of Ariusian grape will pour
Sweet nectar. Therewithal at my behest
Shall Lyctian Aegon and Damoetas sing,
And Alphesiboeus emulate in dance
The dancing Satyrs. This, thy service due,
Shalt thou lack never, both when we pay the Nymphs
Our yearly vows, and when with lustral rites
The fields we hallow. Long as the wild boar
Shall love the mountain-heights, and fish the streams,
While bees on thyme and crickets feed on dew,
Thy name, thy praise, thine honour, shall endure.
Even as to Bacchus and to Ceres, so
To thee the swain his yearly vows shall make;
And thou thereof, like them, shalt quittance claim.'
MOPSUS
How, how repay thee for a song so rare?
For not the whispering south-wind on its way
So much delights me, nor wave-smitten beach,
Nor streams that race adown their bouldered beds.
MENALCAS
First this frail hemlock-stalk to you I give,
Which taught me 'Corydon with love was fired
For fair Alexis,' ay, and this beside,
'Who owns the flock?- Meliboeus?'
MOPSUS
But take you
This shepherd's crook, which, howso hard he begged,
Antigenes, then worthy to be loved,
Prevailed not to obtain- with brass, you see,
And equal knots, Menalcas, fashioned fair!
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Hymns Of The Brahmo Somaj
I.
The mercy, O Eternal One!
By man unmeasured yet,
In joy or grief, in shade or sun,
I never will forget.
I give the whole, and not a part,
Of all Thou gayest me;
My goods, my life, my soul and heart,
I yield them all to Thee!
II.
We fast and plead, we weep and pray,
From morning until even;
We feel to find the holy way,
We knock at the gate of heaven
And when in silent awe we wait,
And word and sign forbear,
The hinges of the golden gate
Move, soundless, to our prayer!
Who hears the eternal harmonies
Can heed no outward word;
Blind to all else is he who sees
The vision of the Lord!
III.
O soul, be patient, restrain thy tears,
Have hope, and not despair;
As a tender mother heareth her child
God hears the penitent prayer.
And not forever shall grief be thine;
On the Heavenly Mother's breast,
Washed clean and white in the waters of joy
Shall His seeking child find rest.
Console thyself with His word of grace,
And cease thy wail of woe,
For His mercy never an equal hath,
And His love no bounds can know.
Lean close unto Him in faith and hope;
How many like thee have found
In Him a shelter and home of peace,
By His mercy compassed round!
There, safe from sin and the sorrow it brings,
They sing their grateful psalms,
And rest, at noon, by the wells of God,
In the shade of His holy palms!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Invitation
DAMON.
Haste! Sylvia! haste, my charming Maid!
Let's leave these fashionable toys;
Let's seek the shelter of some shade,
And revel in ne'er fading joys.
See spring in liv'ry gay appears,
And winter's chilly blasts are fled;
Each grove its leafy honours rears,
And meads their lovely verdure spread!
SYLVIA.
Yes Damon, glad I'll quit the town,
Its gaities now languid seem;
Then sweets to luxury unknown
We'll taste, and sip th' untainted stream.
In Summer's sultry noon-tide heat,
I'll lead thee to the shady grove;
There hush thy cares, or pleas'd repeat
Those vows that won my soul to love.
DAMON.
When o'er the mountain peeps the dawn,
And round her ruddy beauties play,
I'll wake my Love to view the lawn,
Or hear the warblers hall the day.
But, without thee, the rising morn
In vain awakes the cooling breeze,
In vain does nature's face adorn;
Without my Sylvia nought can please.
SYLVIA.
At night, when universal gloom
Hides the bright prospect from our view,
When the gay groves give up their bloom,
And verdant meads their lovely hue;
Tho' fleeting spectres round me move,
When in thy circling arms I'm prest,
I'll hush my rising fears with love,
And sink in slumber on thy breast.
DAMON.
The new-blown rose, whilst on its leaves
Yet the bright scented dew-drops found,
Pleas'd on thy bosom, whilst it heaves,
Shall shake its heav'nly fragrance round.
Then mingled sweets the sense shall raise,
Then mingled beauties catch the eye;
What pleasure on such charms to gaze!
What rapture mid such sweets to lie!
SYLVIA.
How sweet thy words!--but, Damon cease,
Nor strive to fix me ever here;
Too well you know these accents please,
That oft have fill'd my ravish'd ear.
Come, lead me to these promis'd joys,
That dwelt so lately on thy tongue;
Direct me by thy well known voice,
And calm my transports with thy song!
poem by Thomas Godfrey
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Christmas Hymn
O CHRIST, born on the holy day,
I have no gift to give my King;
No flowers grow by my weary way;
I have no birthday song to sing.
How can I sing Thy name and praise,
Who never saw Thy face divine;
Who walk in darkness all my days,
And see no Eastern stars a-shine?
Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,
How can I leave Thy praise unsung?
How stay from homage to the King,
And hold a silent, grudging tongue?
Lord, I found many a song to sing,
And many a humble hymn of praise
For Thy great Miracle of Spring,
The wonder of the waxing days.
When I beheld Thy days and years,
Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?
The moons of love, the years of tears,
The mysteries of death and birth?
Have I not sung with all my soul
While soul and song were mine to yield,
Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,
The dewy clover of Thy field?
Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,
Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;
Have I not made me holy feasts
Of all the beauty Thou hast made?
What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!
Won never grace Thy face to see?
I heard Thy footstep on the grass,
Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.
No music now I make or win,
Yet, Lord, remember I have been
The lover of Thy world, wherein
I found nought common or unclean.
Grown old and blind, I sing no more,
Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,
Yet take the songs I made of yore
For echoes to Thy birthday song.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Can You Smell The Rain…This Is A True Story
A child was premature
Only after 24 weeks her mother gave birth
She was only 12 inches long
When she came into this world
Her mother and father
Were waiting for news
And as always
Doctors filled them with gloom
She will not live for very long
And if she does complications
Will unfold
She will be blind
She will be deaf
She will be retarded
She has not fully developed yet
Tears abashed as she cried in pain
Both parents distraught
At their tiny daughters plight
They said their prayers
They had their faith
The asked the lord
To watch over her
She survived 2 months
She was breathing still
They were fianaly able to hold her
Small tiny body in their arms
But still the Doctors said
She would not live long
And each time her parents
Would cry once more
This can't be true
She's breathing still
They said their prayers
They had their faith
The asked the lord
To watch over her
Two more months
Had passed on by
And still she breathed
And still she was alive
But alas the Doctors did say
She will not survive
Another day
Distraught once again
Her parents were sad
And once again they
Bowed their heads
They said their prayers
They had their faith
The asked the lord
To watch over her
Now five years on
She runs and plays
And does everything
A little girl does
And then one day
While out on a trip
With her loved ones
Her family and friends
She was chatting to mom
About things from the day
Of playing with friends
And her family
When suddenly she paused
And said out loud
Can you smell that?
Her mother concerned
Looked up to the sky
It was just about
To rain outside
She nodded to her
And said with a smile
Why yes little one
I can smell the rain
But shaking her head
She said no not that
Can't you smell that?
Puzzled she smiled
As she shook her head
Why yes my dear child
It's about to rain
Her daughter just smiled
And shook her head
Then patted her shoulders
And said out loud
It smells like him! ! !
Then her mother just wept
As her father smiled
And realized she was
Talking about God
The rain had stopped
The sun came out
She yelled with glee
I want to go play
She hugged her mom
Smiled at her dad
Its ok mom
It was just only God
Then ran off to play
poem by Kaila George
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Psalm 13
Pleading with God under desertion.
How long, O Lord, shall I complain,
Like one that seeks his God in vain?
Canst thou thy face for ever hide,
And I still pray, and be denied?
Shall I for ever be forgot,
As one whom thou regardest not
Still shall my soul thine absence mourn,
And still despair of thy return?
How long shall my poor troubled breast
Be with these anxious thoughts oppressed?
And Satan, my malicious foe,
Rejoice to see me sunk so low?
Hear, Lord, and grant me quick relief,
Before my death conclude my grief:
If thou withhold thy heav'nly light,
I sleep in everlasting night.
How will the powers of darkness boast,
If but one praying soul be lost!
But I have trusted in thy grace,
And shall again behold thy face.
Whate'er my fears or foes suggest,
Thou art my hope, my joy, my rest;
My heart shall feel thy love, and raise
My cheerful voice to songs of praise.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Sephestia's Lullaby
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe;
Fortune changed made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl-drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies;
Thus he grieved in every part,
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;
More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss,
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
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Random things about my Mother
My mother whose eyes were strained
By a sadness that stained her eyes
With grey and blue hue
My mother who never blew
Out candles on a birthday cake
My mother who never knew
The thrills of flying in an airplane
My mother who forever threw
Her pearls to swine
My mother who knew
No contentment in living
My who mother never lived
To be even seventy two
My mother who it is true
Stopped living long before she died
My mother from whose mouth flew
Words of disappointment and fury
My mother whose lips
Tasted bitter tears
My mother sat impatiently
In sorrow through her years
My mother who like Kunta Kinte
Was tamed by Diabets
My mother who was tamed
By my father
My mother who was captured by my father
My mother who fought with my father
The two them struggling false teeth piercing each others flesh
My mother who my father told to go and cook the mint
My mother who would beat us and cause wounds and bruises to our skin
My mother who love to walk about
My mother who gave a toe
A day away
My mother who kiked with her stump of a leg after she lost her foot
My mother who was a great dresser
My mother who could sing
Sang on the church choir
My mother who would be at the front of the church earliest every Saturday
My mother who insisted I be baptized and save by the holy ghost
My mother had beautiful handwriting
My mother who had nine children for five different men
My mother who tried to settle down with my father
My mother who could never swim
My mother who loved to sing
My mother who would tie us up on leashes and take us for long walks through the town
My mother who sought out hand me-downs – for our clothing
My mother who was active in the Welfare Society at church so she could cream the crop for her family
My mother who instigated many a conflicts with her numerous friend was left with only a few in the end.
My mother whom I so wanted to help evolve
My mother who I helped to live
My mother who I had to let die
My mother who lives in me
poem by Fleurette Elaine Harris
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