Epilogue to the Tragedy of Cato
You see in ancient Rome what folly reign'd;
A folly British men would have disdain'd.
Here's none so weak to pity Cato's case,
Who might have liv'd, and had a handsome place;
But rashly vain, and insolently great,
He perish'd by his fault -- and not his fate.
Thank Heav'n! our patriots better ends pursue,
With something more than glory in their view.
Poets write morals -- priests for martyrs preach --
Neither such fools to practice what they teach.
Though your dear country much you wish to serve,
For bonny Britons 'tis too hard to starve;
Or what's all one, to any generous mind,
>From girls, champagne, and gaming, be confin'd;
Portius might well obey his sire's command,
Returning to his small paternal land;
A low estate was ample to support
His private life, far distant from the court!
Far from the crowd of emulating beaux,
Where Martia never wanted birthday clothes.
For you, who live in these more polish'd days,
To spend your money, lo! ten thousand ways;
Dice may run ill, or duns demand their due,
And ways to get (God knows) are very few;
In times so differing, who shall harshly blame
Our modern heroes, not to act the same?
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
To Mr. Addison on His Tragedy of Cato
Too long hath love engross'd Britannia's stage,
And sunk to softness all our tragic rage:
By that alone did empires fall or rise,
And fate depended on a fair-one's eyes:
The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it sooth'd the heart.
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame:
A patriot's fall may justly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind.
How do our souls with generous pleasure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight
Of all his sufferings venerably great;
Rome's poor remains still sheltering by his side,
With conscious virtue, and becoming pride!
The aged oak thus rears his head in air,
His sap exhausted, and his branches bare;
'Midst storms and earthquakes, he maintains his state,
Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight
His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful shade.
Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows,
Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes;
Awhile they let the world's great business wait,
Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato's fate.
Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,
Where states and senates well might lend an ear,
And kings and priests without a blush appear.
France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now first pays homage to her rival's stage,
Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms, and British wit:
No more she'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see,
And fondly triumphs in a son like thee.
The senates, consuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find: each deed, each word exprest,
And every thought that swell'd a Roman breast,
We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire
With Virgil's judgement, and with Lucan's fire;
We know thy worth, and, give us leave to boast,
We most admire, because we know thee most.
poem by Thomas Tickell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Universal Prayer
Father of all! In every age,
In ev'ry clime ador'd,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!
Thou Great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confin'd
To know but this, that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind:
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And, binding Nature fast in Fate,
Left free the human Will.
What Conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do;
This teach me more than Hell to shun,
That more than Heav'n pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives
Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives;
T' enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And teach damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my heart
To find that better way.
Save me alike from foolish Pride
Or impious Discontent,
At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught that goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To right the fault I see:
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean tho' I am, not wholly so,
Since quicken'd by thy breath;
O lead me whereso'er I go,
Thro' this day's life or death!
This day be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun
Though know'st if best bestow'd or not,
And let Thy will be done.
To Thee, whose temple is of Space,
Whose altar earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all Beings raise!
All Nature's incense rise!
poem by Alexander Pope
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Apology For The Clergy,
How well these Laymen love to gibe,
And throw their Jests on Levi's Tribe!
Must One be toil'd to Death, they cry,
Whilst other Priests are yawning by?
Forgetful that He reaps the Gain,
Why should They waste their Lungs in vain?
When Men were weak enough to prize
The Christian Scheme, as good and wise,
To think there was an Heav'n and Hell;
To pray and preach did very well:
When Mortals look'd beyond the Grave,
A Priest, for Conscience sake, might slave:
But in this learned Realm and Age,
Where Faith is beaten off the Stage;
This happy Realm, where Reason reigns,
And scorns to drag Religion's Chains;
Where free--born Britons, ev'ry Day,
Sit down to feast, and rise to play;
And, since their Money buys their Meat,
Won't thank their God for what they eat;
Where e'vn some Chaplains fill their Place
Politely, without saying Grace:
If here, (where Reason swells so high,
It dares all other Pow'rs defy)
The Priests are, like the Laymen, wise,
Nor hope Reversions in the Skies;
Why should they deign to preach, or pray,
For any View -- but present Pay?
poem by Mary Barber
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Prologue To Steele's Tender Husband
In the first rise and infancy of farce,
When fools were many, and when plays were scarce
The raw unpractis'd authors could, with ease,
A young and unexperienc'd audience please:
No single character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their own;
Rich in originals, they set to view,
In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.
But now our British theatre can boast
Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host!
Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows
Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux;
Rough country knights are found of every shire;
Of every fashion gentle fops appear;
And punks of different characters we meet,
As frequent on the stage as in the pit.
Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull,
And here and there by chance glean up a fool:
Long ere they find the necessary spark,
They search the town, and beat about the Park,
To all his most frequented haunts resort,
Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court;
As love of pleasure or of place invites;
And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's
Howe'er, to do you right, the present age
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage;
That scorn the paths their dull forefather's trod,
And won't be blockheads in the common road.
Do but survey this crouded house tonight:
--Here's still encouragement for those that write.
Our author, to divert his friends to-day,
Stocks with variety of fools his play;
And that there may be something gay and new,
Two ladies-errant has expos'd to view;
The first a damsel, travel'd in romance;
The t'other more refin'd, she comes from France:
Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger,
And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.
poem by Joseph Addison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn 23 part 2
A hopeful youth falling short of heaven.
Mark 10:21.
Must all the charms of nature, then,
So hopeless to salvation prove?
Can hell demand, can heav'n condemn,
The man whom Jesus deigns to love?
The man who sought the ways of truth,
Paid friends and neighbors all their due;
A modest, sober, lovely youth,
And thought he wanted nothing new.
But mark the change; thus spake the Lord-
"Come, part with earth for heav'n today:"
The youth, astonished at the word,
In silent sadness went his way.
Poor virtues that he boasted so,
This test unable to endure;
Let Christ, and grace, and glory go,
To make his land and money sure!
Ah, foolish choice of treasures here!
Ah, fatal love of tempting gold!
Must this base world be bought so dear?
Are life and heav'n so cheaply sold?
In vain the charms of nature shine,
If this vile passion govern me:
Transform my soul, O love divine!
And make me part with all for thee.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Andrew Jackson
On the life of Andrew Jackson,
Now dear people I will write,
And in sketches, I will tell you
His career with great delight.
His career on earth is ended;
But his name is ever bright,
And his memory is cherished
As a great glorious knight.
The early life of Andrew Jackson,
Its marked in high renown,
As a lover of his country
He proved steadfastly profound,
Through kind teaching of his mother,
That patriot lady brave;
His mind strengthened by her wisdom,
Ere she sank into her grave.
Ah, in manhood, Andrew Jackson,
Was a daring fearless man;
With a strong iron will commanding,
He was loved throughout our land.
He was kind and generous hearted
In his military acts,
Yet was stubborn, while commanding,
And no courage did he lack.
At middle age, Andrew Jackson
Was a noble warlike man,
And was capable of handling
The army at his command.
You can see it by the battles
Of his Indian campaign,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where so many men were slain.
The dauntless energy of Jackson,
Oh, should never be forgot,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where he diligently fought.
Where he fought to save his country,
From the British fleets of fame;
Through coolness and courage
The victory he did gain.
As commander, Andrew Jackson
Was a soldier of great skill,
And he nobly done his duty
To his country, with good will.
Yet in life his acts were censured,
Ah, by men both great and small.
One the acts that made him trouble
Was the arresting of Judge Hall.
Oh, that act cost Andrew Jackson
Many heart pang in after life,
For he thought it was his duty
In that hard cruel strife
That his soldiers should obey him
And fulfill every command,
As he knew no other method,
He could save his native land.
The people loved Andrew Jackson,
"Old Hickory" was their friend.
As a President o'er our country
He proved faithful to the end.
His career on earth was ended
Eighteen Forty Five; is seen
As a star his name is shining
The "hero" of "New Orleans."
poem by Julia A Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Throes of Change
Today, we’re in the throes of change, as men attempt to rearrange,
With ideas that come and go, the ways of life we’ve come to know.
With political change in the wind, proven ways they want to rescind,
Behaviors prescribed by our Lord; the only ones that have endured.
But, like the flower and the grass, all political rhetoric, too will pass,
Even after men’s votes are cast, their imposing plans shall not last.
As many campaigning on our sod, have truly forgotten a Holy God,
In a land so blessed by Him, they instead, support the people’s sin.
Calling their ideas progressive still, while they go against God’s will,
His Righteous will for our land, is a thinking they do not understand.
They’re on the left, not the right, as they stray further from His Light,
They claim to represent everyone, except men who love God’s Son.
God’s Word speaks of their path, as it touches on folly’s aftermath,
Noting the wise lean to the right, as they avoid the folly of the night,
While the foolish, to the left side, where all Godly wisdom is denied,
While ignoring God’s Revelation, men change us into a liberal nation.
Such thinking is an affront to God, Who rules with a Righteous Rod,
Who could very well install over us, a leader who all the liberals trust,
To weaken further a moral base, that is sliding far from God’s Grace,
All because of changing days, which deny all God’s Righteous ways.
(Copyright ©02/2008)
Chanson d’Amour
I thought to live without true love
All my life through to be at peace,
But this heart, once again, would prove
Its folly from which I had won free.
Greater the folly is in me
Than child crying foolishly
To possess the lovely star
He sees shining clear and far.
However much I may despair
Love has well rewarded me
For serving him with all the care
I possess, without treachery,
Making Folly’s King of me.
Let all beware his deceit
Who grants such a gift, we see,
To those who serve loyally.
If I show anger it’s no wonder
To one who wounds me so sore
God! If I had him in my power
For just one day and no more:
Then he’d pay for his folly
As God my witness be!
He’d pay with his death, unless
He vanquished my lady blessed.
Ay! Noble heart, that is so wise,
Don’t scorn all my foolishness.
I know I’ve not the slightest right
To love you, just a lover’s right:
But folly drives us recklessly
Like a storm-tossed ship at sea,
That’s blown where the wind will blow,
Until all’s wrecked and brought low.
My lady who lacks never a grace,
Generous, kind, show me mercy:
Since there’s no evil in that face
But all good shines there clearly,
You know from whence this folly
That takes my life comes to me.
To whom can I cry again,
Except to you, in pain?
Song, pay her your respects, she
Is my sweet folly, and please
Beg her for God and honour
Never to prove a traitor.
poem by Le Châtelain de Coucy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Vanities Of Life
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.--_Solomon_
What are life's joys and gains?
What pleasures crowd its ways,
That man should take such pains
To seek them all his days?
Sift this untoward strife
On which thy mind is bent:
See if this chaff of life
Is worth the trouble spent.
Is pride thy heart's desire?
Is power thy climbing aim?
Is love thy folly's fire?
Is wealth thy restless game?
Pride, power, love, wealth, and all
Time's touchstone shall destroy,
And, like base coin, prove all
Vain substitutes for joy.
Dost think that pride exalts
Thyself in other's eyes,
And hides thy folly's faults,
Which reason will despise?
Dost strut, and turn, and stride,
Like walking weathercocks?
The shadow by thy side
Becomes thy ape, and mocks.
Dost think that power's disguise
Can make thee mighty seem?
It may in folly's eyes,
But not in worth's esteem,
When all that thou canst ask,
And all that she can give,
Is but a paltry mask
Which tyrants wear and live.
Go, let thy fancies range
And ramble where they may;
View power in every change,
And what is the display?
--The country magistrate,
The meanest shade in power,
To rulers of the state,
The meteors of an hour.
View all, and mark the end
Of every proud extreme,
Where flattery turns a friend,
And counterfeits esteem;
Where worth is aped in show,
That doth her name purloin,
Like toys of golden glow
That's sold for copper coin.
Ambition's haughty nod
With fancies may deceive,
Nay, tell thee thou'rt a god,
And wilt thou such believe?
Go, bid the seas be dry;
Go, hold earth like a ball,
Or throw thy fancies by,
For God can do it all.
Dost thou possess the dower
Of laws to spare or kill?
Call it not heavenly power
When but a tyrant's will.
Know what a God will do,
And know thyself a fool,
Nor, tyrant-like, pursue
Where He alone should rule.
O put away thy pride,
Or be ashamed of power
That cannot turn aside
The breeze that waves a flower.
Or bid the clouds be still:
Though shadows, they can brave
Thy poor power mocking will:
Then make not man a slave.
Dost think, when wealth is won,
Thy heart has its desire?
Hold ice up to the sun,
And wax before the fire;
Nor triumph oer the reign
Which they so soon resign;
In this world's ways they gain,
Insurance safe as thine.
Dost think life's peace secure
In house and in land?
Go, read the fairy lure
To twist a cord in sand;
Lodge stones upon the sky,
Hold water in a sieve,
Nor give such tales the lie,
And still thine own believe.
Whoso with riches deals,
And thinks peace bought and sold,
Will find them slipping eels,
That slide the firmest hold:
Though sweet as sleep with health
Thy lulling luck may be,
Pride may oerstride thy wealth,
And check prosperity.
Dost think that beauty's power
Life sweetest pleasure gives?
Go, pluck the summer flower,
And see how long it lives:
Behold, the rays glide on
Along the summer plain
Ere thou canst say 'they're gone,'
And measure beauty's reign.
Look on the brightest eye,
Nor teach it to be proud;
View but the clearest sky,
And thou shalt find a cloud;
Nor call each face ye meet
An angel's, cause it's fair,
But look beneath your feet,
And think of what they are.
Who thinks that love doth live
In beauty's tempting show,
Shall find his hopes ungive,
And melt in reason's thaw.
Who thinks that pleasure lies
In every fairy bower,
Shall oft, to his surprise,
Find poison in the flower.
Dost lawless passions grasp?
Judge not thou deal'st in joy:
Its flowers but hide the asp,
Thy revels to destroy.
Who trusts an harlot's smile,
And by her wiles are led,
Plays, with a sword the while
Hung dropping oer his head.
Dost doubt my warning song?
Then doubt the sun gives light,
Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,
And wrong alone as right;
And live as lives the knave,
Intrigue's deceiving guest;
Be tyrant, or be slave,
As suits thy ends the best.
Or pause amid thy toils
For visions won and lost,
And count the fancied spoils,
If eer they quit the cost:
And if they still possess
Thy mind, as worthy things,
Plat straws with bedlam Bess,
And call them diamond rings.
Thy folly's past advice,
Thy heart's already won,
Thy fall's above all price,
So go, and be undone;
For all who thus prefer
The seeming great for small
Shall make wine vinegar,
And sweetest honey gall.
Wouldst heed the truths I sing,
To profit wherewithal,
Clip folly's wanton wing,
And keep her within call.
I've little else to give,
What thou canst easy try;
The lesson how to live
Is but to learn to die.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fit To Serve
When men serve the Eternal King, whether they preach or they sing,
It is The Lord above we praise, as hearts and voice to Him we raise.
All the service that He calls men to, The Lord above helps them do,
Equipping every believer He calls, to many tasks and various roles.
God helps us with the task at hand, in ways we may not understand,
By equipping each and everyone, when we come to faith in His Son.
By grace God allows men to serve, in ways we truly do not deserve,
Serving in ways hard to believe, after God’s Spirit we have received.
Through The Spirit God fills you with, all the knowledge and the gift,
The gift to use the knowledge inside, using The Spirit as your guide.
God above has a plan for all of us, if we’d simply believe and trust,
We can serve the Lord in many ways, all through these earthly days.
In your heart, The Lord instills, His Truth and knowledge, as He wills,
And this knowledge of The Lord, in your service, by God is poured,
Onto men, whom you reach, through your witness and your speech,
As The Lord God uses your whole life, as a vessel for Jesus Christ.
A new vessel that belongs to Him; Christ, who saved us from all sin,
Cleansed and fit for the service of, the Lord God, who reigns above.
Using people, just like you and me, to move others towards eternity,
Where we will serve forevermore, when we reign with Christ our Lord.
(Copyright ©11/2007)
Seven
I forgot what my father said
I forgot what he said
I forgot what my mother said
As we layed on your bed
A city full of flowers
A city full of rain
I got seven days to live my life or seven ways to die
I forgot what my brother said
I forgot what he said
I dont regret anything at all
I remember how he wept
On a bridge of violent people
I was small enough to cry
I got seven days to live my life or seven ways to die
Hold my face before you
Still my trembling heart
Seven days to live my life or seven ways to die
The gods forgot they made me
So I forgot them to
I listen to their shadows
I play among their graves
My heart is never broken
My patience never tried
I got seven days to live my life or seven ways to die
Seven days to live my life or saven ways to die
Seven
Seven
Seven
Seven
Seven
Seven
Seven
Seven
Seven
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Mother India
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
In Your Lap live men and women
Of every caste and religion.
You rain your love and affection
On them all without distinction.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You have got a peculiar trait
Due to which you are very great.
You adopt the foreigners too,
Who like to live and die for you.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are beautiful, all perfect;
You are rich in every aspect.
In the ancient times, we have heard,
Aliens called you ‘a golden bird’
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
The mountains guard your honour here;
The ocean washes your feet there.
The rivers contain sweet water
Which for us is just like nectar.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Our culture is ancient and high,
We are respected that is why.
Culture has bound us by and by,
With a chain of pure love and tie.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men
Who are not loyal, but still then,
Pose as lovers of this nation,
Whom we do not like to mention.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men;
Fire of hatred they ever fan.
Freedom, we fear, may not be lost,
Which we have got at a great cost.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Let us be wise not to be tool
Of selfish powers which befool
Those who do not well understand
Their aim which is behind their stand.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We will be lucky, if we die
For you, O Gracious Country High!
We’ll give them a fitting reply,
Who see you with a slanting eye.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
poem by Aziz Ahmad
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Vanitas Vanitatum
How spake of old the Royal Seer?
(His text is one I love to treat on.)
This life of ours he said is sheer
Mataiotes Mataioteton.
O Student of this gilded Book,
Declare, while musing on its pages,
If truer words were ever spoke
By ancient, or by modern sages!
The various authors' names but note,*
French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans:
And in the volume polyglot,
Sure you may read a hundred sermons!
What histories of life are here,
More wild than all romancers' stories;
What wondrous transformations queer,
What homilies on human glories!
What theme for sorrow or for scorn!
What chronicle of Fate's surprises—
Of adverse fortune nobly borne,
Of chances, changes, ruins, rises!
Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke,
How strange a record here is written!
Of honors, dealt as if in joke;
Of brave desert unkindly smitten.
How low men were, and how they rise!
How high they were, and how they tumble!
O vanity of vanities!
O laughable, pathetic jumble!
Here between honest Janin's joke
And his Turk Excellency's firman,
I write my name upon the book:
I write my name—and end my sermon.
—————
O Vanity of vanities!
How wayward the decrees of Fate are;
How very weak the very wise,
How very small the very great are!
What mean these stale moralities,
Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble?
Why rail against the great and wise,
And tire us with your ceaseless grumble?
Pray choose us out another text,
O man morose and narrow-minded!
Come turn the page—I read the next,
And then the next, and still I find it.
Read here how Wealth aside was thrust,
And Folly set in place exalted;
How Princes footed in the dust,
While lackeys in the saddle vaulted.
Though thrice a thousand years are past,
Since David's son, the sad and splendid,
The weary King Ecclesiast,
Upon his awful tablets penned it,—
Methinks the text is never stale,
And life is every day renewing
Fresh comments on the old old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
Hark to the Preacher, preaching still
He lifts his voice and cries his sermon,
Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill,
As yonder on the Mount of Hermon;
For you and me to heart to take
(O dear beloved brother readers)
To-day as when the good King spake
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mother India
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
In Your Lap live men and women
Of every caste and religion.
You rain your love and affection
On them all without distinction.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You have got a peculiar trait
Due to which you are very great.
You adopt the foreigners too,
Who like to live and die for you.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are beautiful, all perfect;
You are rich in every aspect.
In the ancient times, we have heard,
Aliens called you ‘a golden bird’
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
The mountains guard your honour here;
The ocean washes your feet there.
The rivers contain sweet water
Which for us is just like nectar.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Our culture is ancient and high,
We are respected that is why.
Culture has bound us by and by,
With a chain of pure love and tie.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men
Who are not loyal, but still then,
Pose as lovers of this nation,
Whom we do not like to mention.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men;
Fire of hatred they ever fan.
Freedom, we fear, may not be lost,
Which we have got at a great cost.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Let us be wise not to be tool
Of selfish powers which befool
Those who do not well understand
Their aim which is behind their stand.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We will be lucky, if we die
For you, O Gracious Country High!
We’ll give them a fitting reply,
Who see you with a slanting eye.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
poem by Aziz Ahmad 'Aziz Moradabadi'
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fools haven
The haven of fools
This is the haven fools
Fools do not like greatness
So they hate to progress
Fools lack wisdom
They are far from freedom
Their heart attaineth riches
But they don't have riches
Fools will perish
But the upright will flourish
He will nourish
Has anybody seen
The end of the foolish
Think for wisdom excelleth folly
Whom will you like to be
The end of the upright
Is everlasting life
Like a tree
Planted by the river side
Marry it, let it be your bride
Keep it as your pride
Do away with ignorant
For the truth is important
Fools has pleasure in vanity
But the happiness
Of the wise is in eternity
poem by Matt Ancient
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stafford Henry Northcote
Gentle in fibre, but of steadfast nerve
Still to do right though right won blame not praise,
And fallen on evil tongues and evil days
When men from plain straight duty twist and swerve,
And, born to nobly sway, ignobly serve,
Sliming their track to power through tortuous ways,
He felt, with that fine sense that ne'er betrays,
The line of moral beauty's not a curve.
But, proving wisdom folly, virtue vain,
He stretched his hands out to the other shore,
And was by kindred spirits beckoned o'er
Into the gloaming Land where setteth pain,
While we across the silent river strain
Idly our gaze, and find his form no more.
poem by Alfred Austin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To The Reverend Mr. Mabell, Of Cambridge
Tho' great Longinus claims thy aiding Hand,
And hopes, thro' thee, t'instruct a barb'rous Land,
Where vile Conceits the Pow'r of Wit confound,
And true Sublimity is lost in Sound;
Where Folly, dress'd ten thousand various Ways,
The Bar, the Play--house, and the Pulpit sways;
Yet to my Verse thy kind Attention lend;
Pardon the Poet, and indulge the Friend.
From Noise, and Nonsense, and vain Laughte free,
I steal a thoughtful Hour, and give to thee;
To thee, Conductor of my heedless Youth,
Who taught me first to rev'rence Sense, and Truth;
Virtue to praise; and boldly Vice deride,
With all the Pomp of Fashion on her Side.
Behold the Scene a motley Tribe compose,
Wives, Widows, Maids, and intermingled Beaux,
All Orders, Ages, in one League unite,
And to dear Passage consecrate the Night!
Now the Dice rattle in the sounding Box;
Now groans the Table with repeated Knocks;
(Delightful Musick to the Gamester's Ear!)
While ev'ry Bosom beats with Hope or Fear.
A Pass resounds--What wond'rous Transports rise
In Celia's Breast, and lighten in her Eyes!
She sweeps the Board--The Fop, with ardent Gaze,
Admires the Beauty that her Arm displays.
But who, unmov'd, can bear the piteous Sight,
While Cynthia frets and raves at Fortune's Spite?
Fled from her Cheek are ev'ry Love and Grace,
And all the Fury threatens in her Face:
Distracted, lost, with Grief and Rage o'ercome,
She quits the Dice, and flies to storm at home.
When I a Curse implore, may courteous Fate
With such a Consort curse the Man I hate!
But is there One amongst the Many found,
Adorn'd with Modesty, with Reason crown'd;
Who treads the slipp'ry Paths of Youth with Care,
And uninfected breathes in tainted Air?
If such there be, kind Heav'n, afford thy Aid,
And soften to my Wish the virtuous Maid!
See the Belle flutter with the sprightly Beau!
They trip it on the light, fantastic Toe:
Nor Words, nor Sighs, their am'rous Thoughts impart;
They dance, and glitter at each other's Heart!
With honest Scorn survey yon various Croud,
Of supple Slaves, or Lords of Titles proud!
Stiff--nodding Fools! a Mob in Masquerade!
Whom Honours brand, and Dignities upbraid.
Yet some there are, with Worth and Wisdom blest.
A noble Few! who satirize the rest;
Who scorn to boast their great Fore--father's Rays,
Shine of themselves, and mingle Blaze with Blaze.
And such is Orrery; whose gen'rous Mind,
Still prone to Pity, feels for human Kind.
A Zeal for Piety inflames his Breast,
Temper'd with Charity, in Meekness dress'd:
Grandeur and Ease his ev'ry Action guide;
He nor assumes, nor condescends in Pride:
Add sprightly Wit, by prudent Laws confin'd,
A Judgment sober, and by Books refin'd:
Add that the Muses ev'ry Charm dispense,
To tune his Voice, and beautify the Sense.
This to my Friend: And, O! may this inspite
Love of fair Fame, and fan the sacred Fire!
Dare to have Taste, and urge thy glorious Toil,
To teach th' Unknowing, and to please a Boyle.
poem by Mary Barber
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Have We Forgotten God?
Have we forgotten God today, regardless of what polls do say?
God is acknowledged by most, across this land, coast to coast,
But, is His Truth truly believed, or are many souls just deceived?
If God, by the country is lifted up, why are our ways so corrupt?
Yes, “Oh my God” we often hear, but, do you sense a holy fear?
In their voice as they proclaim, our Sovereign God’s Holy Name?
And what yet, is even worse, His Name is used more, as a curse,
As many say they believe in Him, while being led by cords of sin.
Truly the question one must raise, while living in these later days,
Regarding God, just if or when, He’s even in the thoughts of men,
And friend that is only just a start, for is He moving in their heart?
Is He accepted with a devout nod, or do they even think of God?
If no place for God is found, these men will be on shaky ground,
Only girded by the shifting sand, in hard trials they will not stand;
Such is the same for any nation, that falls from God’s Revelation,
Ignoring The Word, many cherish, many within our land will perish.
Saying they believe in The Lord, but God’s Holy Laws go ignored,
While we live in these darker days, with many seeking other ways,
If you’re concerned at all my friend, let us not continue to pretend,
Again, all across this land we trod, have men truly forgotten God?
(Copyright ©06/2010)