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Upon the Death of the Viscount of Dundee

O last and best of Scots! who didst maintain
Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;
New people fill the land now thou art gone,
New gods the temples, and new kings the throne.
Scotland and thou did each in other live;
Nor wouldst thou her, nor could she thee survive.
Farewell! who, dying, didst support the state,
And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate.

poem by John Dryden
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Brittania's Throne

MIRROR of the trackless sky,
Priestess of its changing mood,
Ere thy shores were piled on high
Thou didst feel God’s Spirit brood;
Thou didst hear His word alone;—
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.

From thy deeps the creeping things
Spread through cove and brook and fen,
Changing scales for soaring wings
And the mould of mortal men;
From thy womb the world hath grown!
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.

Then among the happier ones
Filing in millennial train,
Thou didst make us favoured sons,
Teaching us to rule and reign:
Thou didst call us for thine own—
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.

Mighty Mistress, thou didst school
England’s heart in all thy ways;
May she learn no nicer rule
In the ease of after days;
For the greatness we have known
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.

For the passion of our plea,
For the memory of our brave,
For the fights we fought for thee,
For the bones that thou dost lave,
For the love that we have shown!
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.

poem by Arthur Maquarie
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Sonnet II

Oh thou who once on earth, beneath the weight
Of our mortality didst live and move,
The incarnation of profoundest love;
Who on the Cross that love didst consummate;
Whose deep and ample fullness could embrace
The poorest, meanest of our fallen race:
How shall we e'er that boundless debt repay?
By long loud prayers in gorgeous temples said?
By rich oblations on thine altars laid?
Ah, no! not thus thou didst appoint the way:
When thou wast bowed our human woe beneath,
Then as a legacy thou didst bequeath
Earth's sorrowing children to our ministry --
And as we do to them, we do to thee.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet: God Ne’er Forsakes Me

How many times have I ignored warnings?
How many times have I tried not to heed?
How many times have I sinned by mornings?
And yet, Thou didst forgive my acts indeed.

How many times have I walked in sin’s paths?
How many times have I reveled in sin?
How many times have I taken sin-baths?
And yet, Thou didst help me o’er Tempter win.

How many times have I failed my duties?
How many times have I Thee disobeyed?
How many times have I lost my mind’s peace?
And yet, Thou didst come promptly to my aid.

How many times have I forgotten Thee?
And yet, Thou didst not once ev’r forsake me.

7-23-2001

poem by John Celes
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For the restoration of my dear Husband from a burning Ague, June, 1661.

When feares and sorrowes me besett,
Then did'st thou rid me out;
When heart did faint and spirits quail,
Thou comforts me about.
Thou rais'st him vp I feard to loose,
Regau'st me him again:
Distempers thou didst chase away;
With strenght didst him sustain.
My thankfull heart, with Pen record
The Goodnes of thy God;
Let thy obedience testefye
He taught thee by his rod.
And with his staffe did thee support,
That thou by both may'st learn;
And 'twixt the good and evill way,
At last, thou mig'st discern.
Praises to him who hath not left
My Soul as destitute;
Nor turnd his ear away from me,
But graunted hath my Suit.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Charity

O Thou who once on earth beneath the weight
Of our mortality didst live and move,
The incarnation of profoundest love;
Who on the Cross that love didst consummate,
Whose deep and ample fullness could embrace
The poorest, meanest of our fallen race:
How shall we e'er that boundless debt repay?
By long, loud prayers in gorgeous temples said?
By rich oblations on thine altars laid?
Ah, no! not thus Thou didst appoint the way:
When Thou wast bowed our human woe beneath,
Then as a legacy Thou didst bequeath
Earth's sorrowing children to our ministry,
Saying, As ye do to them ye do to me.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ex Ore Infantium

Little Jesus, wast Thou shy
Once, and just so small as I?
And what did it feel like to be
Out of Heaven, and just like me?
Didst Thou sometimes think of THERE,
And ask where all the angels were?
I should think that I would cry
For my house all made of sky;
I would look about the air,
And wonder where my angels were;
And at waking 'twould distress me--
Not an angel there to dress me!
Hadst Thou ever any toys,
Like us little girls and boys?
And didst Thou play in Heaven with all
The angels that were not too tall,
With stars for marbles? Did the things
Play Can you see me? through their wings?
And did Thy Mother let Thee spoil
Thy robes, with playing on OUR soil?
How nice to have them always new
In Heaven, because 'twas quite clean blue!

Didst Thou kneel at night to pray,
And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?
And did they tire sometimes, being young,
And make the prayer seem very long?
And dost Thou like it best, that we
Should join our hands to pray to Thee?
I used to think, before I knew,
The prayer not said unless we do.
And did Thy Mother at the night
Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?
And didst Thou feel quite good in bed,
Kissed, and sweet, and thy prayers said?

Thou canst not have forgotten all
That it feels like to be small:
And Thou know'st I cannot pray
To Thee in my father's way--
When Thou wast so little, say,
Couldst Thou talk Thy Father's way?--
So, a little Child, come down
And hear a child's tongue like Thy own;
Take me by the hand and walk,
And listen to my baby-talk.
To Thy Father show my prayer
(He will look, Thou art so fair),
And say: 'O Father, I, Thy Son,
Bring the prayer of a little one.'

And He will smile, that children's tongue
Has not changed since Thou wast young!

poem by Francis Thompson
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To Mary

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

poem by Charles Wolfe
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The Pariah - The Pariah's Prayer

DREADED Brama, lord of might!

All proceed from thee alone;
Thou art he who judgeth right!

Dost thou none but Brahmins own?
Do but Rajahs come from thee?

None but those of high estate?

Didst not thou the ape create,
Aye, and even such as we?

We are not of noble kind,

For with woe our lot is rife;
And what others deadly find

Is our only source of life.
Let this be enough for men,

Let them, if they will, despise us;

But thou, Brama, thou shouldst prize us,
All are equal in thy ken.

Now that, Lord, this prayer is said,

As thy child acknowledge me;
Or let one be born in-stead,

Who may link me on to thee!
Didst not thou a Bayadere

As a goddess heavenward raise?

And we too to swell thy praise,
Such a miracle would hear.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Tempted Soul

Weak soul, by sense still led astray,
Why wilt thou parley with the foe?
He seeks to work thine overthrow,
And thou, poor fool! dost point the way.

Hast thou forgotten many a day,
When thou exulting forth didst go,
And ere the noon wert lying low,
A broken and defenceless prey?

If thou wouldst live, avoid his face;
Dwell in the wilderness apart,
And gather force for vanquishing,
Ere thou returnest to his place.
Then arm, and with undaunted heart
Give battle, till he own thee king.

poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

Begone wan ghost what wantest thou.
Why dost thou haunt me constantly
I owe no duty now to thee
I did whilst thou didst live but now
There is no law that doth allow
a long dead wife to harass me.
When kindly death hath set me free.
I suffered thy tongue long enow.

Thou wert a shrew with bitter tongue.
Thou didst not hesitate to use
to make my life a misery.
The choice I made when I was young
led to a lifetime of abuse.
God knows I am well rid of thee.

Sunday,07 February 2010.
http: // blog myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Greensleeves

A new Courtly Sonnet, of the Ladie Greensleeves.
Alas, my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
And I have lov-ed you so long
Delighting in your companie

(Chorus)Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my Ladie Greensleeves

I have been ready at your hand
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both waged life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have.

(Chorus)

I bought thee kerchers to thy head,
That were wrought fine and gallantly
I kept thee both boord and bed
Which cost my purse well favouredly

(Chorus)

I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as might be;
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.

(Chorus)

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,
With gold embroidered gargeously;
Thy petticoat of sendal right,
And these I bought thee gladly

(Chorus)

Thy girdle of gold so red,
With pearles bedecked sumptuously;
The like no other lasses had,
And yet thou wouldst not love me

(Chorus)

Thy purse and eke thy gay gilt knives,
Thy pincase gallant to the eye;
No better wore the Burgesse wives
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thy crimson stockings all of silk,
With golde all wrought above the knee,
Thy pumps as white as was the milk
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thy gown was of the grossie green,
Thy sleeves of satten hanging by,
Why made thee be our harvest Queen.
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thy garters fringed with the golde,
And silver aglets hanging by,
Which made thee blithe for to beholde
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

My gayest gelding I thee gave,
To ride where ever liked thee,
No Ladie ever was so brave
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

They set thee up, they took thee downe,
They served thee with humilitie,
Thy foote might not once touch the ground
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

For everie morning when thou rose,
I sent thee dainties orderly;
To cheare thy stomack from all woes
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
But still thou hadst it readily;
Thy musicke still to play and sing
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

And who did pay for all this geare,
That thou didst spend when pleased thee,
Even I that am rejected here
And thou disdainst to love me.

(Chorus)

Well I will pray to God on high,
That thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.

(Chorus)

Greensleeves, now farewell! adieu!
God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me.

(Chorus)

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Deliverance from a Fit of Fainting

Worthy art Thou, O Lord, of praise,
But ah! It's not in me.
My sinking heart I pray Thee raise
So shall I give it Thee.

My life as spider's webb's cut off,
Thus fainting have I said,
And living man no more shall see
But be in silence laid.

My feeble spirit Thou didst revive,
My doubting Thou didst chide,
And though as dead mad'st me alive,
I here a while might 'bide.

Why should I live but to Thy praise?
My life is hid with Thee.
O Lord, no longer be my days
Than I may fruitful be.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Otho

I.
Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim
From Brutus his own glory--and on thee
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame:
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail
Amid his cowering senate with thy name,
Though thou and he were great--it will avail
To thine own fame that Otho’s should not fail.

II.
'Twill wrong thee not—thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel,
Abjure such envious fame--great Otho died
Like thee--he sanctified his country’s steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide,
In his own blood—a deed it was to bring
Tears from all men—though full of gentle pride,
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring,
That will not be refused its offering.

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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