To My Dear Friend Mr. Congreve On His Commedy Call'd The Double Dealer
Well then; the promis'd hour is come at last;
The present age of wit obscures the past:
Strong were our sires; and as they fought they writ,
Conqu'ring with force of arms, and dint of wit;
Theirs was the giant race, before the Flood;
And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.
Like Janus he the stubborn soil manur'd,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd:
Tam'd us to manners, when the stage was rude;
And boisterous English wit, with art endu'd.
Our age was cultivated thus at length;
But what we gained in skill we lost in strength.
Our builders were, with want of genius, curst;
The second temple was not like the first:
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length;
Our beauties equal; but excel our strength.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base:
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise:
He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please:
Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One match'd in judgment, both o'er-match'd in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see;
Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity;
The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly.
All this in blooming youth you have achiev'd;
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd;
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless Consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome;
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame;
And scholar to the youth he taught, became.
Oh that your brows my laurel had sustain'd,
Well had I been depos'd, if you had reign'd!
The father had descended for the son;
For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus when the State one Edward did depose;
A greater Edward in his room arose.
But now, not I, but poetry is curs'd;
For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let 'em not mistake my patron's part;
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophesy; thou shalt be seen,
(Tho' with some short parenthesis between
High on the throne of wit; and seated there,
Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise, is to be regular.
Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought,
But genius must be born; and never can be taught.
This is your portion; this your native store;
Heav'n that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.
Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need;
For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
Already I am worn with cares and age;
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heav'n's expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence:
But you, whom ev'ry muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and oh defend,
Against your judgment your departed friend!
Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue;
But shade those laurels which descend to you:
And take for tribute what these lines express:
You merit more; nor could my love do less.
poem by John Dryden
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To Mr. Granville, On His Excellent Tragedy, Called Heroic Love
Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and withering age submit,
With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long contended honours of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.
Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age
Can best, if any can, support the stage;
Which so declines, that shortly we may see
Players and plays reduced to second infancy:
Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the stage, but on the town,
And, in despair their empty pit to fill,
Set up some foreign monster in a bill.
Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving,
And murdering plays, which they miscall reviving.
Our sense is nonsense, through their pipes conveyed;
Scarce can a poet know the play he made,
'Tis so disguised in death; nor thinks 'tis he
That suffers in the mangled tragedy.
Thus Itys first was killed, and after dressed
For his own sire, the chief invited guest.
I say not this of thy successful scenes,
Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains.
With length of time, much judgment, and more toil,
Not ill they acted what they could not spoil.
Their setting sun still shoots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay;
And better gleanings their worn soil can boast,
Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.
This difference yet the judging world will see;
Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.
poem by John Dryden
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To my Dear Friend M. Ben Jonson, on his Fox
If it might stand with justice to allow
The swift conversion of all follies; now,
Such is my mercy, that I could admit
All sorts should equally approve the wit
Of this thy even work, whose growing fame
Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name.
And did not manners and my love command
Me to forbear to make those understand,
Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom
Long since firmly resolved, shall never come
To know more than they do; I would have shewn
To all the world, the art, which thou alone
Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place,
And other rites, delivered, with the grace
Of comic style, which, only, is far more
Than any English stage hath known before.
But, since our subtle gallants think it good
To like of nought, that may be understood,
Lest they should he disproved; or have, at best,
Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest
But what's obscene, or barks: let us desire
They may continue, simply, to admire
Fine clothes, and strange words; and may live, in age,
To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,
And like it: whilst thy bold and knowing muse
Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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Strength From God
As more darkness looms ahead, I will look to my Savior instead,
For God’s strength, one more time, in this trial, not of my design,
And as God’s done before, strength He’ll supply and much more,
As God leads me through the night, in His strength and His might.
My own endurance through this trial, will not last, there’s no denial,
God’s resources, I can’t deplete, so in God, my strength’s replete.
With His strength He gives peace, that, from God, shall not cease,
As He’s helped me in past days, He’ll strengthen me to His praise.
Though weak and frail, I may be, that strength that God grants me,
Helps me through minute to hour, not through mine but His power,
Divine power, He extends by grace, for each and every trial I face,
Through the strength of The Lord, I know my ways will be restored.
Through my own strength I would fall, but, He is Lord God over all,
Over all the ways, within my life, as I follow The Lord, Jesus Christ,
Who guides me each and every day, lighting even the darkest way,
By God, dark days are not ignored, for I’m led by Christ, my Lord,
When I am weak, He is strong, so following God, I can’t go wrong;
Grace God sends by His design, into my life, at just the right time,
So never is it too early or too late, as for God’s grace I never wait,
For He Who cares so much for me, is The Lord God, over Eternity.
(Copyright ©02/2011)
An Epistle to Mr. Southerne
Bold is the Muse to leave her humble Cell,
And sing to thee, who know'st to sing so well:
Thee! who to Britain still preserv'st the Crown,
And mak'st her rival Athens in Renown.
Cou'd Sophocles behold in mournful State,
The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait;
Or hear thy Isabella's moving Moan,
Distress'd and lost for Vices not her own;
If Envy cou'd permit, he'd sure agree
To write by Nature were to copy thee:
So full, so fair thy Images are shown,
He by thy Pencil might improve his own.
There was an Age, (its Memory will last!)
Before Italian Airs debauch'd our Taste;
In which the sable Muse with Hopes and Fears,
Fill'd every Breast, and ev'ry Eye with Tears.
But where's that Art, which all our Passions rais'd,
And mov'd the Springs of Nature as it pleas'd?
Our Poets only practise on the Pit,
With florid Lines, and trifling Turns of Wit.
Howe'er 'tis well the present Times can boast,
The Race of Charles's Reign not wholly lost.
Thy Scenes, immortal in their Worth, shall stand
Among the chosen Classics of our Land:
And whilst our Sons are by Tradition taught,
How Barry spoke what Thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish, and repeat,
And own thy Works inimitably great.
Shakespear, the Genius of our Isle, whose Mind
(The universal Mirror of Mankind)
Express'd all Images, enrich'd the Stage,
But sometimes stoop'd to please a barb'rous Age.
When his immortal Bays began to grow,
Rude was the Language, and the Humour low.
He, like the God of Day, was always bright,
But rolling in its Course, his Orb of Light
Was sully'd, and obscur'd, tho' soaring high,
With Spots contracted from the nether Sky.
But whither is th' adventrous Muse betray'd?
Forgive her Rashness, venerable Shade! 50
May Spring with Purple Flow'rs perfume thy Urn,
And Avon with his Greens thy Grave adorn:
Be all thy Faults, whatever Faults there be,
Imputed to the Times, and not to thee.
Some Scions shot from this immortal Root,
Their tops much lower, and less fair the Fruit.
Johnson, the Tribute of my Verse might claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespear's Name.
But, like the radiant Twins that gild the Sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in Pomp appear:
The first a fruitful Vine, in bloomy Pride,
Had been by Superfluity destroy'd;
But that his Friend, judiciously severe,
Prun'd the luxuriant Boughs with artful Care:
On various sounding Harps the Muses play'd,
And sung, and quaff'd their Nectar in the Shade.
Few Moderns in the Lists with these may stand,
For in those Days were Giants in the Land:
Suffice it now by Lineal Right to claim,
And bow with Filial Awe to Shakespear's Fame;
The second Honours are a glorious Name.
Achilles dead, they found no equal Lord,
To wear his Armour, and to wield his Sword.
An Age most odious and accurs'd ensu'd,
Discolour'd with a pious Monarch's Blood:
Whose Fall when first the Tragick Virgin saw,
She fled, and left her Province to the Law.
Her Merry Sister still persu'd the Game,
Her Garb was alter'd, but her Gifts the same.
She first reform'd the Muscles of her Face,
And learnt the solemn Scrue, for Signs of Grace;
Then circumcis'd her Locks, and form'd her Tone,
By humming to a Tabor, and a Drone:
Her Eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white;
Thus banish'd from the Stage, she gravely next
Assum'd a Cloak, and quibbl'd o'er a Text.
But when by Miracles of Mercy shown,
Much-suff'ring Charles regain'd his Father's Throne;
When Peace and Plenty overflow'd the Land,
She strait pull'd off her Sattin Cap, and Band:
Bade Wycherly be bold in her Defence,
With pointed Wit, and Energy of Sense:
Etherege and Sidley join'd him in her Cause,
And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd Applause.
Restor'd with less Success, the Tragic Muse,
Had quite forgot her Style by long Disuse:
She taught her Maximins to rant in Rhime,
Mistaking ratling Nonsense for sublime;
'Till witty Buckingham reform'd her Taste,
1 And sneering sham'd her into Sense at last.
But now relaps'd, she dwindles to a Song,
And weakly warbles on an Eunuch's Tongue;
And with her Minstrelsie may still remain,
'Till Southerne court her to be great again.
Perhaps the Beauties of thy Spartan Dame,
Who (long defrauded of the publick Fame)
Shall, with superior Majesty avow'd,
Shine like a Goddess breaking from a Cloud,
Once more may re-instate her on the Stage,
Her Action graceful, and divine her Rage.
Arts have their Empires, and, like other States,
Their Rise and Fall are govern'd by the Fates.
They, when their Period's measur'd out by Time,
Transplant their Laurels to another Clime.
The Grecian Muse once fill'd with loud Alarms,
The Court of Heav'n, and clad the Gods in Arms:
The Trumpet silent, humbly she essay'd
The Doric Reed, and sung beneath the Shade;
Extoll'd a frugal Life, and taught the Swains
T' observe the Seasons, and manure the Plains:
Sometimes in warbled Hymns she pay'd her Vow,
Or wove Olympic Wreaths for Theron's Brow;
Sometimes on flow'ry Beds she lay supine,
And gave her Thoughts a Loose to Love and Wine;
Or in her sable Stole, and Buskins dress'd,
Shew'd Vice enthron'd, and virtuous Kings oppress'd.
The Nymph still fair, however past her Bloom,
From Greece at length was led in Chains to Rome:
Whilst Wars abroad, and civil Discord reign'd,
Silent the beauteous Captive long remain'd:
That Interval employ'd her timely Care,
To Study, and refine the Language there.
She views with Anguish on the Roman Stage
The Grecian Beauties weep, the Warriors rage:
But most those Scenes delight th' immortal Maid,
Which Scipio had revis'd, and Roscius Play'd.
Thence to the Pleadings of the Gown she goes,
(For Themis then cou'd speak in polish'd Prose.)
Charm'd at the Bar, amid th' attentive Throng
She bless'd the Syren-Pow'r of Tully's Tongue.
But when, Octavius, thy successful Sword
Was sheath'd, and universal Peace restor'd;
Fond of a Monarch, to the Court she came,
And chose a num'rous Choir to chant his Fame.
First from the green Retreats, and lowly Plains,
Her Virgil soar'd sublime in Epic Strains:
His Theme so glorious, and his Flight so true,
She with Mæonian Garlands grac'd his Brow.
Taught Horace then to touch the Lesbian Lyre,
And Sappho's Sweetness join'd with Pindar's Fire.
By Cæsar's Bounty all the tuneful Train
Enjoy'd, and sung of Saturn's golden Reign:
No Genius then was left to live on Praise,
Or curs'd the barren Ornament of Bays;
On all her Sons he cast a kind Regard,
Nor could they write so fast as he reward.
The Muse, industrious to record his Name
In the bright Annals of eternal Fame,
Profuse of Favours lavish'd all her Store,
And for one Reign made many Ages poor.
Now from the rugged North, unnumber'd Swarms
Invade the Latian Coasts with barb'rous Arms;
A Race unpolish'd, but inur'd to Toil,
Rough as their Heav'n, and barren as their Soil:
These Locusts ev'ry springing Art destroy'd,
And soft Humanity before them dy'd.
Picture no more maintain'd the doubtful Strife
With Nature's Scenes, nor gave the Canvas Life;
Nor Sculpture exercis'd her Skill, beneath
Her forming Hand to make the Marble breathe:
Struck with Despair, they stood devoid of Thought,
Less lively than the Works themselves had wrought.
On those Twin-Sisters such Disasters came,
Tho' Colours and Proportions are the same
In ev'ry Age, and Clime; their Beauties known
To ev'ry Language, and confin'd by none.
But Fate less Freedom to the Muse affords,
And checks her Genius with the Choice of Words:
To paint her Thoughts the Diction must be found
Of easy Grandeur, and harmonious Sound.
Thus when she rais'd her Voice divinely great,
To sing the Founder of the Roman State;
The Language was adapted to the Song;
Sweet and sublime, with native Beauty strong.
But when the Goths insulting Troops appear'd,
Such Dissonance the trembling Virgin hear'd!
Chang'd to a Swan, from Tyber's troubled Streams
She wing'd her Flight, and sought the silver Thames.
Long in the melancholy Grove she stay'd,
And taught the pensive Druids in the Shade;
In solemn and instructive Notes they sung,
From whence the beauteous Frame of Nature sprung;
Who polish'd all the radiant Orbs above,
And in bright Order made the Planets move;
Whence Thunders roar, and frightful Meteors fly,
And Comets roll unbounded thro' the Sky:
Who wing'd the Winds, and gave the Streams to flow,
And rais'd the Rocks, and spread the Lawns below
Whence the gay Spring exults in flow'ry Pride,
And Autumn with the bleeding Grape is dy'd;
Whence Summer Suns imbrown the lab'ring Swains
And shiv'ring Winter pines in icy Chains:
And prais'd the Pow'r supream, nor dar'd advance
So vain a Theory as that of Chance.
But in this Isle she found the Nymphs so fair,
She chang'd her Hand, and chose a softer Air,
And Love and Beauty next became her Care.
Greece, her lov'd Countrey, only cou'd afford
A Venus and a Helen to record;
A thousand radiant Nymphs she here beheld,
Who match'd the Goddess, and the Queen excell'd.
T' immortalize their Loves she long essay'd,
But still the Tongue her gen'rous Toil betray'd,
Chaucer had All that Beauty cou'd inspire,
And Surry's Numbers glow'd with warm Desire:
Both now are priz'd by few, unknown to most,
Because the Thoughts are in the Language lost;
Ev'n Spencer's Pearls in muddy Waters lie,
Yet soon their Beams attract the Diver's Eye.
Rich was their Imag'ry, 'till Time defac'd
The curious Works: but Waller came at last.
Waller, the Muse with heav'nly Verse supplies,
Smooth as the Fair, and sparkling as their Eyes;
``All but the Nymph, that shou'd redress his Wrong,
``Attend his Passion, and approve his Song.
But when this Orpheus sunk, and hoary Age
Suppress'd the Lover's and the Poet's Rage;
To Granville his melodious Lute she gave,
Granville, whose faithful Verse is Beauty's Slave:
Accept this Gift, my fav'rite Youth! she cry'd,
To sound a brighter Theme, and sing of Hyde;
Hyde's, and thy lovely Myra's Praise proclaim,
And match Carlisle's, and Sacharissa's Fame.
O! wou'd he now forsake the Myrtle Grove,
And sing of Arms, as late he sung of Love!
His Colours, and his Hand alone shou'd paint
In Britain's Queen, the Warrior and the Saint;
In whom conspire, to form her truly great,
Wisdom with Pow'r, and Piety with State.
Whilst from her Throne the Streams of Justice flow,
Strong and serene, to bless the Land below;
O'er distant Realms her dreaded Thunders roll,
And the wild Rage of Tyranny controul.
Her Pow'r to quell, and Pity to redress,
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine confess;
Whence bleeding Iber hopes, around his Head
To see fresh Olive spring, and Plenty spread:
And whilst they sound their great Deliv'rer's Fame,
The Sein retires, and sickens at her Name.
O Granville! all these glorious Scenes display,
Instruct succeeding Monarchs how to sway;
And make her Memory rever'd by all,
When Triumphs are forgot, and mould'ring Arches fall.
Pardon me, Friend! I own my Muse too free,
To write so long on such a Theme to thee:
To play the Critic here - with equal Right
Bid her pretend to teach Argyle to fight:
Instruct th' unerring Sun to guide the Year,
And Harley by what Schemes he ought to steer.
Give Harcourt Eloquence t' adorn the Seal,
Maxims of State to Leeds, to Beaufort Zeal.
Try to correct what Orrery shall write,
And make harmonious St. John more Polite.
Teach Law to Isla for the Crown's Support,
And Jersey how to serve, and grace a Court:
Dictate soft warbling Airs to Sheffield's Hand,
When Venus and her Loves around him stand:
In sage Debates to Rochester impart
A searching Head, and ever faithful Heart:
Make Talbot's finish'd Virtue more compleat,
High without Pride, and amiably great;
Where Nature all her Pow'rs with Fortune join'd,
At once to please, and benefit Mankind.
When Cares were to my blooming Youth unknown,
My Fancy free, and all my Hours my own;
I lov'd along the Laureat Grove to stray,
The Paths were pleasant, and the Prospect gay:
But now my Genius sinks, and hardly knows
To make a Couplet tinkle in the Close.
Yet when you next to Medway shall repair,
And quit the Town to breathe a purer Air;
Retiring from the Crowd, to steal the Sweets
Of easy Life in Twysden's calm Retreats;
(As Terence to his Lælius lov'd to come,
And in Campania scorn'd the Pomp of Rome.)
Where Lambard, form'd for Business, and to please
By sharing, will improve your Happiness;
In both their Souls imperial Reason sways,
In both the Patriot, and the Friend displays;
Be lov'd, and prais'd by all, who merit Love and Praise.
With bright Ideas there inspir'd anew,
By them excited, and inform'd by you,
I may with happier Skill essay to sing
Sublimer Notes, and strike a bolder String.
Languid and dull, when absent from her Cave,
No Oracles of old the Sybil gave;
But when beneath her sacred Shrine she stood,
Her Fury soon confess'd the coming God;
Her Breast began to heave, her Eyes to roul,
And wond'rous Visions fill'd her labouring Soul.
poem by Elijah Fenton
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Praise to you Jesus Christ (Song)
Praise to you Jesus Christ/God
Praise to you Jesus Christ/Holy spirit
Praise to you Jesus Christ
Give me the strength to praise your mane
Give me the strength to sing your song
Give me the strength to sing loudly
Give me the strength to speak your work
Give me the strength to bare my cross
Give me the strength to walk in your path
Give me the strength to share my wealth
Give me the strength to share what I have
Give me the strength to live in peace
Give me the strength to come to the church
Give me the strength to understand your word
Give me the strength to confess my faults
Give me the strength to stand and sing
Give me the strength to survive in this world
Give me the strength to watch your works
Give me the strength to stay with you
Give me the strength to say thank you
Give me the strength to walk in darkness
Give me the strength to walk for freedom
Give me the strength to stand for my nation
Give me the strength to stand with you
Amen
-o-
poem by Bhavani Polimetla
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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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Sonnet XLI: Having This Day My Horse
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 41: Having This Day My Horse
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Astrophel and Stella: XLI
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
poem by Philip Sidney
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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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Ch 01 Manner of Kings Story 27
A man had attained great excellence in the art of wrestling, who knew three hundred and sixty exquisite tricks and daily exhibited something new. He had a particular affection for the beauty of one of his pupils whom he taught three hundred and fifty-nine tricks, refraining to impart to him only one. At last the youth had attained such power and skill that no one was able to contend with him and he went so far as to say to the sultan: "I allow superiority to my teacher on account of his age and from gratitude for his instruction but my strength is not less than his and my skill equal." The king, who was not pleased with this want of good manners, ordered them to wrestle with each other and a spacious locality having been fixed upon, the pillars of state and courtiers of his majesty made their appearance. The youth made an onslaught like a mad elephant with an impulse which might have uprooted a mountain of brass from its place but the master, who knew that he was in strength superior to himself, attacked him with the rare trick he had reserved to himself and which the youth was unable to elude; whereon the master, lifting him up with his hands from the ground, raised him above his head and then threw him down. Shouts were raised by the spectators and the king ordered a robe of honour with other presents to be given to the teacher but reproached and blamed the youth for having attempted to cope with his instructor and succumbed. He replied: "My lord, he has not vanquished me by his strength but there was a slender part in the art of wrestling which he had withheld from me and had today thereby got the upper hand of me." The master said: "I had reserved it for such an occasion because wise men have said: “Do not give so much strength to thy friend that, if he becomes thy foe, he may injure thee.” Hast thou not heard what the man said who suffered molestation from one whom he had educated?
Either fidelity itself does not exist in this world
Or nobody practices it in our time.
No one had learnt archery from me
Without at last making a target of me."
Psalm 84 part 1
The pleasure of public worship.
How pleasant, how divinely fair,
O Lord of hosts, thy dwellings are!
With long desire my spirit faints
To meet th' assemblies of thy saints.
My flesh would rest in thine abode,
My panting heart cries out for God;
My God! my King! why should I be
So far from all my joys and thee?
The sparrow chooses where to rest,
And for her young provides her nest;
But will my God to sparrows grant
That pleasure which his children want?
Blest are the saints who sit on high
Around thy throne of majesty;
Thy brightest glories shine above,
And all their work is praise and love.
Blest are the souls who find a place
Within the temple of thy grace;
There they behold thy gentler rays,
And seek thy face, and learn thy praise.
Blest are the men whose hearts are set
To find the way to Zion's gate;
God is their strength, and through the road
They lean upon their helper God.
Cheerful they walk with growing strength,
Till all shall meet in heav'n at length,
Till all before thy face appear,
And join in nobler worship there.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Davideis: A Sacred Poem Of The Troubles Of David (excerpt)
BOOK I (excerpt)
I sing the man who Judah's sceptre bore
In that right hand which held the crook before;
Who from best poet, best of kings did grow;
The two chief gifts Heav'n could on man bestow.
Much danger first, much toil did he sustain,
Whilst Saul and Hell cross'd his strong fate in vain.
Nor did his crown less painful work afford;
Less exercise his patience, or his sword;
So long her conqueror fortunes spite pursued;
Till with unwearied virtue he subdued
All homebred malice, and all foreign boasts;
Their strength was armies, his the Lord of Hosts.
Thou, who didst David's royal stem adorn,
And gav'st him birth from whom thy self wast born;
Who didst in triumph at death's court appear,
And slew'st him with thy nails, thy cross and spear,
Whilst Hell's black tyrant trembled to behold,
The glorious light he forfeited of old;
Who Heav'ns glad burden now, and justest pride,
Sit'st high enthron'd next thy great Father's side,
(Where hallowed flames help to adorn that head
Which once the blushing thorns environed,
Till crimson drops of precious blood hung down
Like rubies to enrich thine humble crown.)
Even thou my breast with such blest rage inspire,
As mov'd the tuneful strings of David's lyre,
Guide my bold steps with thine old travelling flame,
In these untrodden paths to sacred fame;
Lo, with pure hands thy heav'enly fires to take,
My well-chang'd Muse I a chaste vestal make!
From earth's vain joys, and love's soft witchcraft free,
I consecrate my Magdalene to thee!
Lo, this great work, a temple to thy praise,
On polish'd pillars of strong verse I raise!
A temple, where if thou vouchsafe to dwell,
It Solomon's, and Herod's shall excel.
Too long the Muses-land have heathen bin;
Their gods too long were devils, and virtues sin;
But thou, Eternal Word, has call'd forth me
Th' apostle, to convert that world to thee;
T' unbind the charms that in slight fables lie,
And teach that truth is purest poesy.
...
poem by Abraham Cowley
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An Account Of The Greatest English Poets
Since, dearest Harry, you will needs request
A short account of all the Muse possest,
That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's Times,
Have spent their Noble Rage in British Rhimes;
Without more Preface, wrote in Formal length,
To speak the Undertakers want of strength,
I'll try to make they're sev'ral Beauties known,
And show their Verses worth, tho' not my Own.
Long had our dull Fore-Fathers slept Supine,
Nor felt the Raptures of the Tuneful Nine;
Till Chaucer first, the merry Bard, arose;
And many a Story told in Rhime and Prose.
But Age has Rusted what the Poet writ,
Worn out his Language, and obscur'd his Wit:
In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain,
And tries to make his Readers laugh in vain.
Old Spencer next, warm'd with Poetick Rage,
In Antick Tales amus'd a Barb'rous Age;
An Age that yet uncultivate and Rude,
Where-e'er the Poet's Fancy led, pursu'd
Through pathless Fields, and unfrequented Floods,
To Dens of Dragons and Enchanted Woods.
But now the Mystick Tale, that pleas'd of Yore,
Can Charm an understanding Age no more;
The long-spun Allegories fulsom grow,
While the dull Moral lies too plain below.
We view well-pleas'd at distance all the sights
Of Arms and Palfreys, Battle's, Fields, and Fights,
And Damsels in Distress, and Courteous Knights.
But when we look too near, the Shades decay,
And all the pleasing Lan-skip fades away.
Great Cowley then (a mighty Genius) wrote;
O'er-run with Wit, and lavish of his Thought:
His Turns too closely on the Reader press;
He more had pleas'd us, had he pleas'd us less.
One glitt'ring Thought no sooner strikes our Eyes
With silent wonder, but new wonders rise.
As in the Milky way a shining White,
O'er-flows the Heav'ns, with one continu'd Light;
That not a single Star can shew his Rays,
Whilst joyntly all promote the Common-Blaze.
Pardon, Great Poet, that I dare to name
Th' unnumber'd Beauties of thy Verse with blame;
Thy fault is only Wit in its Excess,
But Wit like thine in any shape will please.
What Muse but thine cou'd equal Hints inspire,
And fit the Deep-Mouth'd Pindar to thy Lyre:
Pindar, whom others in a Labour'd strain
And forc'd Expression, imitate in vain?
Well-pleas'd in thee he Soars with new delight,
And Plays in more unbounded Verse, and takes a nobler flight.
Blest Man! whose spotless Life and Charming Lays
Employ'd the Tuneful Prelate in thy Praise:
Blest Man! who now shall be for ever known
In Sprat's successful Labours and thy own.
But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks,
Unfetter'd in Majestic Numbers walks;
No vulgar Heroe can his Muse ingage;
Nor Earth's wide Scene confine his hallow'd Rage.
See! see, he upward Springs, and Tow'ring high,
Spurns the dull Province of Mortality;
Shakes Heav'ns Eternal Throne with dire Alarms,
And sets the Almighty Thunderer in Arms.
What-e'er his Pen describes I more then see,
Whilst ev'ry Verse array'd in Majesty,
Bold, and sublime, my whole attention draws,
And seems above the Criticks nicer Laws.
How are you struck with Terrour and Delight,
When Angel with Arch-Angel Cope's in Fight!
When Great Messiah's out-spread Banner shines,
How does the Chariot Rattel in his Lines!
What sounds of Brazen Wheels, what Thunder, scare,
And stun the Reader with the Din of War!
With Fear my Spirits and my Blood retire,
To see the Seraphs sunk in Clouds of Fire;
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay Scenes of Paradise;
What Tongue, what words of Rapture, can express
A Vision so profuse of pleasantness.
Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his Pen,
To varnish o'er the Guilt of Faithless Men,
His other works might have deserv'd applause!
But now the Language can't support the Cause;
While the clean Current, tho' serene and bright,
Betray's a bottom odious to the sight.
But now my Muse, a softer strain rehearse.
Turn every Line with Art, and smooth thy Verse;
The Courtly Waller next commands thy Lays:
Muse Tune thy Verse, with Art, to Waller's Praise.
While tender Airs and lovely Dames inspire
Soft melting Thoughts, and propagate Desire;
So long shall Waller's strains our Passion move,
And Sacharissa's Beauties kindle Love.
Thy Verse, Harmonious Bard, and flatt'ring Song,
Can make the Vanquish'd Great, the Coward strong.
Thy Verse can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence,
And Compliment the Storms that bore him hence.
Oh had thy Muse not come an Age too soon,
But seen Great Nassaw on the British Throne!
How had his Triumphs glitter'd in thy Page,
And warm'd Thee to a more Exalted Rage!
What Scenes of Death and Horrour had we viewd,
And how had Boine's wide Current Reek'd in Blood!
Or if Maria's Charms thou wou'dst rehearse,
In smoother Numbers and a softer Verse,
Thy Pen had well describ'd her Graceful Air,
And Gloriana wou'd have seem'd more Fair.
Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,
That makes ev'n Rules a noble Poetry:
Rules who's deep Sense and Heav'nly Numbers show
The best of Critticks, and of Poets too.
Nor Denham must we e'er forget thy Strains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring Plains.
But see where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in Rhime, but Charming ev'n in Years.
Great Dryden next! whose Tuneful Muse affords
The sweetest Numbers, and the fittest words.
Whether in Comick sounds or Tragick Airs
She form's her voice, she moves our Smiles or Tears.
If Satire or Heroick Strains she writes,
Her Heroe pleases, and her Satire Bites.
From her no harsh, unartful Numbers fall,
She wears all Dresses, and she Charms in all:
How might we fear our English Poetry,
That long has flourish'd, shou'd decay with Thee;
Did not the Muses other Hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our Fear.
Congreve! whose Fancies unexhausted Store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preserve thy Fame alive
And Dryden's Muse shall in his Friend survive.
I'm tir'd with Rhiming, and wou'd fain give o'er,
But Justice still demands one Labour more:
The Noble Montague remains unnam'd,
For Wit, for Humour, and for Judgment fam'd;
To Dorset he directs his Artful Muse,
In numbers such as Dorset's self might use.
How negligently Graceful he unrein's
His Verse, and writes in loose Familiar strains;
How Nassau's Godlike Acts adorn his Lines,
And all the Heroe in full Glory Shines.
We see his Army set in just Array,
And Boine's Di'd Waves run purple to the Sea.
Nor Simois chok'd with men, and Arms, and Blood;
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated Flood:
Shall longer be the Poet's highest Themes.
Tho' Gods and Heroes fought, Promiscuous in they're streams.
But now, to Nassau's secret Councils rais'd,
He Aids the Heroe, whom before he Prais'd.
I've done, at length, and now, Dear Friend, receive
The last poor Present that my Muse can give.
I leave the Arts of Poetry and Verse
To them that practise 'em with more success.
Of greater Truths I'll now prepare to tell,
And so at once, Dear Friend and Muse, Farewell.
poem by Joseph Addison
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Philippians 4: 13
The strength to resist the night
The strength to endure the day
The strength to keep righteous paths in sight
The strength to take them without delay
The strength to find a purpose in life
The strength to find the truths it brings
The strength to kick away from strife
The strength to stabalize the rock it clings
The strength to light a friend’s day up
The strength to resist wrathful foes
The strength to fill a stranger’s dry cup
The strength to shun sin when it opposed
The strength to feel a injured man’s pain
The strength to hold a reject’s hand
The strength to act against any gain
The strength to love without demand
The strength to understand that our King
Has blessed us with more than we can contain
Therefore regardless what time may bring
The strength will continue to reign
poem by Anders Lim
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Ocean: An Ode. Concluding with A Wish.
What do we see! Cato then become
A greater name in Britain than in Rome?
Does mankind now admire his virtues more,
Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil, wrote before?
How will posterity this truth explain?
"Cato begins to live in Anna's reign."
The world's great chiefs, in council or in arms,
Rise in your lines with more exalted charms;
Illustrious deeds in distant nations wrought,
And virtues by departed heroes taught,
Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame,
Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame;
To your renown all ages you subdue,
And Caesar fought, and Cato bled for you.
poem by Edward Young
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Philadelphia
Thus saith the holy One, and true,
To his beloved faithful few;
Of heav'n and hell I hold the keys,
To shut, or open, as I please.
I know thy works, and I approve,
Though small thy strength, sincere thy love;
Go on, my word and name to own,
For none shall rob thee of thy crown.
Before thee see my mercy's door
Stands open wide to shut no more;
Fear not temptation's fiery day,
For I will be thy strength and stay.
Thou hast my promise, hold it fast,
The trying hour will soon be past;
Rejoice, for lo! I quickly come,
To take thee to my heav'nly home.
A pillar there, no more to move,
Inscribed with all my names of love;
A monument of mighty grace,
Thou shalt for ever have a place.
Such is the conqueror's reward,
Prepared and promised by the Lord!
Let him that has the ear of faith,
Attend to what the Spirit saith.
poem by John Newton
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An Epistle Addressed To Sir Thomas Hanmer, On His Edition Of Shakspeare's Works
WHILE, born to bring the Muse's happier days,
A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays,
While nurs'd by you she sees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb;
Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell
What secret transports in her bosom swell.
With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare's name.
Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd,
Unown'd by Science, and by years obscur'd;
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd
A fixt despair in every tuneful breast.
Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When ling'ring frosts the ruin'd seats invade
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd.
Each rising art by just gradation moves,
Toil builds on toil and age on age improves:
The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserv'd through time, the speaking scenes impart
Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortured heart;
Or paint the curse that mark'd the Theban's (1) reign,
A bed incestuous, and a father slain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow;
Trace the sad tale and own another's woe.
To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please,
The comic Sisters kept their native ease;
With jealous fear, declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander's art almost excell'd;
But every Muse essay'd to raise in vain
Some labour'd rival of her tragic strain:
Illyssus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly soil.
As Arts expir'd, resistless Dullness rose;
Goths, priests, or Vandals—all were Learning's foes,
Till Julius (2) first recall'd each exil'd maid;
And Cosmo owned them in the Etrurian shade:
Then, deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme,
The soft Provençal pass'd to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung;
Sweet flow'd the lays—but love was all he sung.
The gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by Nature, all are friends to love.
But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And even a Shakespeare to her fame be born!
Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.
Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention, 'midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought that warms the female mind;
Each melting sigh, and every tender tear;
The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear.
His (3) every strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
The unrivall'd picture of his early hand.
With (4) gradual steps and slow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew:
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's (5) spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and he inspir'd:
And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine,
The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line.
But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our Poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give
The historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprise,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms;
And laurell'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentle Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
The time (6) shall come when Glo'ster's heart shall bleed,
In life's last hours, with horror of the deed;
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear;
Blunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive spear!
Where'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile;
And Spring diffusive decks th' enchanted isle.
O more than all in powerful genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the Poet's warmth may raise;
There native music dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill persuade,
Expressive picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draught might rise from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!
Methinks e'en now I view some free design
Where breathing Nature lives in every line;
Chaste and subdu'd the modest lights decay,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
And see where Antony, (7) in tears approv'd,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd;
O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
But who (8) is he whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th' avenging steel;
Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall
(So heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall.
See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection, in the Roman's pride;
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise;
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.
Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes their stores alternate bring;
Blend the fair tint, or wake the vocal string;
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For Poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee dispos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.
So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,
E'en Homer's numbers charmed by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters cast on every shore:
When, rais'd by fate, some former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.
1 The Oedipus of Sophocles.
2 Julius II, the immediate predecessor of Leo X.
3 Their characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden.
4 About the time of Shakspeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those
of our own country, Jonson excepted.
5 The favourite author of the elder Corneille.
6 Turno tempus erit, magno cum optaverit emptum
Intactum Pallanta, &c. Virg.
7 See the Tragedy of Julius Cæsar.
8 Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's Dialogue on the Odyssey.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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On the Death of E. Waller, Esq.
How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
While every soft, and every tender Strain
Is ruffl'd, and ill-natur'd grown with Pain.
But, at thy Name, my languisht Muse revives,
And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives.
I hear thy tuneful Verse, thy Song Divine;
And am lnspir'd by every charming Line.
But, Oh! –––––––––
What Inspiration, at the second hand,
Can an Immortal Elegic Command?
Unless, Me Pious Offerings, mine should be
Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.
Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,
Should be those Trophies that adom thy Hearse.
The Thought Illustrious, and the Fancy Young;
The Wit Sublime, the Judgment Fine, and Strong;
Soft, as thy Notes to Sacharissa sung.
Whilst mine, like Transitory Flowers, decay,
That come to deck thy Tomb a short-liv'd Day.
Such Tributes are, like Tenures, only fit
To shew from whom we hold our Right to Wit.
Hafl, wondrous Bard, whose Heav'n-born Genius first
My Infant Muse, and Blooming Fancy Nurst.
With thy soft Food of Love I first began,
Then fed on nobler Panegyrick Strain,
Numbers Seraphic! and, at every View,
My Soul extended, and much larger grew:
Where e're I Read, new Raptures seiz'd my Blood;
Methought I heard the Language of a God.
Long did the untun'd World in Ignorance stray,
Producing nothing that was Great and Gay,
Till taught, by thee, the true Poetick way.
Rough were the Tracts before, Dull, and Obscure;
Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure.
Their thoughtless Labour could no Passion move;
Sure, in that Age, the Poets knew not Love:
That Charming God, like Apparitions, then
Was only talk'd on, but ne're seen by Men:
Darkness was o're the Muses Land displaid,
And even the Chosen Tribe unguided straid.
Till, by thee rescu'd from th' Egyptian Night,
They now look up, and view the God of Light,
That taught them how to Love, and how to Write;
And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav'n lent,
When for our great Instructor thou wert sent.
Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more;
And, like the Sun, did still dispense thy Power,
Producing somthing wondrous every hour:
And, in thy Circulary Course, didst see
The very Life and Death of Poetry.
Thou saw'st the Generous Nine neglected lie,
None listning to their Heav'nly Harmony;
The World being grown to that low Ebb of Sense,
To disesteem the noblest Excellence;
And no Encouragement to Phophets shewn,
Who in past Ages got so great Renown.
Though Fortune Elevated thee above
Its scanty Gratitude, or fickle Love;
Yet, fallen with the World, untir'd by Age,
Scorning th'unthinking Crowd, thou quit'st the Stage.
poem by Aphra Behn
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Psalm 118 part 4
v.24-26
C. M.
Hosanna; the Lord's day; or, Christ's resurrection and our salvation.
This is the day the Lord hath made,
He calls the hours his own;
Let heav'n rejoice, let earth be glad,
And praise surround the throne.
Today he rose and left the dead,
And Satan's empire fell;
Today the saints his triumphs spread,
And all his wonders tell.
Hosanna to th' anointed King,
To David's holy Son;
Help us, O Lord; descend and bring
Salvation from thy throne.
Blest be the Lord, who comes to men
With messages of grace;
Who comes in God his Father's name
To save our sinful race.
Hosanna in the highest strains
The church on earth can raise;
The highest heav'ns, in which he reigns,
Shall give him nobler praise.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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