The Virtuoso: In Imitation of Spenser's Style And Stanza
“--- Videmus
Nugari solitos.”
-Persius
Whilom by silver Thames's gentle stream,
In London town there dwelt a subtile wight;
A wight of mickle wealth, and mickle fame,
Book-learn'd and quaint: a Virtuoso hight.
Uncommon things, and rare, were his delight;
From musings deep his brain ne'er gotten ease,
Nor ceased he from study, day or night;
Until (advancing onward by degrees)
He knew whatever breeds on earth, or air, or seas.
He many a creature did anatomize,
Almost unpeopling water, air, and land;
Beasts, fishes, birds, snails, caterpillars, flies,
Were laid full low by his relentless hand,
That oft with gory crimson was distain'd:
He many a dog destroy'd, and many a cat;
Of fleas his bed, of frogs the marshes drain'd,
Could tellen if a mite were lean or fat,
And read a lecture o'er the entrails of a gnat.
He knew the various modes of ancient times,
Their arts and fashions of each different guise,
Their weddings, funerals, punishments for crimes,
Their strength, their learning eke, and rarities;
Of old habiliments, each sort and size,
Male, female, high and low, to him were known;
Each gladiator-dress, and stage disguise;
With learned, clerkly phrase he could have shown
How the Greek tunic differ'd from the Roman gown.
A curious medallist, I wot, he was,
And boasted many a course of ancient coin;
Well as his wife's he knewen every face,
From Julius Cæsar down to Constantine:
For some rare sculpture he would oft ypine,
(As green-sick damosels for husbands do
And when obtained, with enraptur'd eyne,
He'd run it o'er and o'er with greedy view,
And look, and look again, as he would look it thro'.
His rich museum, of dimensions fair,
With goods that spoke the owner's mind was fraught:
Things ancient, curious, value-worth, and rare,
From sea and land, from Greece and Rome were brought
Which he with mighty sums of gold had bought:
On these all tides with joyous eyes he por'd;
And, sooth to say, himself he greater thought,
When he beheld his cabinets thus stor'd,
Than if he'd been of Albion's wealthy cities lord.
Here in a corner stood a rich 'scrutoire,
With many a curiosity replete;
In seemly order furnished every drawer,
Products of art or nature as was meet;
Air-pumps and prisms were plac'd beneath his feet,
A Memphian mummy-king hung o'er his head;
Here phials with live insects small and great,
There stood a tripod of the Pythian maid;
Above, a crocodile diffus'd a grateful shade.
Fast by the window did a table stand,
Where hodiern and antique rarities,
From Egypt, Greece, and Rome, from sea and land,
Were thick-besprent of every sort and size:
Here a Bahaman-spider's carcass lies,
There a dire serpent's golden skin doth shine:
Here Indian feathers, fruits, and glittering flies;
There gums and amber found beneath the line,
The beak of Ibis here, and there an Antonine.
Close at his back, or whispering in his ear,
There stood a spright ycleped Phantasy;
Which, wheresoe'er he went, was always near:
Her look was wild, and roving was her eye;
Her hair was clad with flowers of every dye;
Her glistering robes were of more various hue,
Than the fair bow that paints the clouded sky,
Or all the spangled drops of morning dew;
Their colour changing still at every different view.
Yet in this shape all tydes she did not stay,
Various as the chameleon that she bore:
Now a grand monarch with a crown of hay,
Now mendicant in silks and golden ore:
A statesman now, equipp'd to chase the boar,
Or cowled monk, lean, feeble, and unfed;
A clown-like lord, or swain of courtly lore;
Now scribbling dunce in sacred laurel clad,
Or papal father now, in homely weeds array'd.
The wight whose brain this phantom's power doth fill,
On whom she doth with constant care attend,
Will for a dreadful giant take a mill,
Or a grand palace in a hogsty find:
(From her dire influence me may Heaven defend!)
All things with vitiated sight he spies:
Neglects his family, forgets his friend,
Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys,
And eagerly pursues imaginary joys.
poem by Mark Akenside
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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
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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
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Psalm CXXXVI
Let us with a gladsome mind
Praise the Lord for he is kind;
For his mercies aye endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
Let us blaze his Name abroad,
For of gods he is the God;
For his, &c.
O let us his praises tell,
That doth the wrathful tyrants quell;
For his, &c.
That with his miracles doth make
Amazèd Heaven and Earth to shake;
For his, &c.
That by his wisdom did create
The painted heavens so full of state;
For his, &c.
That did the solid Earth ordain
To rise above the watery plain;
For his, &c.
That by his all-commanding might,
Did fill the new-made world with light;
For his, &c.
And caused the golden-tressèd Sun
All the day long his course to run;
For his, &c.
The hornèd Moon to shine by night
Amongst her spangled sisters bright;
For his, &c.
He, with his thunder-clasping hand,
Smote the first-born of Egypt land;
For his, &c.
And, in despite of Pharao fell,
He brought from thence his Israel;
For his, &c.
The ruddy waves he cleft in twain
Of the Erythræan main;
For his, &c.
The floods stood still, like walls of glass,
While the Hebrew bands did pass;
For his, &c.
But full soon they did devour
The tawny King with all his power;
For his, &c.
His chosen people he did bless
In the wasteful Wilderness;
For his, &c.
In bloody battail he brought down
Kings of prowess and renown;
For his, &c.
He foiled bold Seon and his host,
That ruled the Amorrean coast;
For his, &c.
And large-limbed Og he did subdue,
With all his over-hardy crew;
For his, &c.
And to his servant Israel
He gave their land, therein to dwell;
For his, &c.
He hath, with a piteous eye,
Beheld us in our misery;
For his, &c.
And freed us from the slavery
Of the invading enemy;
For his, &c.
All living creatures he doth feed,
And with full hand supplies their need;
For his, &c.
Let us, therefore, warble forth
His mighty majesty and worth;
For his, &c.
That his mansion hath on high,
Above the reach of mortal eye;
For his, &c.
poem by John Milton
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Stanzas
WITHIN our happy castle there dwelt One
Whom without blame I may not overlook;
For never sun on living creature shone
Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
Here on his hours he hung as on a book,
On his own time here would he float away,
As doth a fly upon a summer brook;
But go tomorrow, or belike today,
Seek for him,---he is fled; and whither none can say.
Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,
And find elsewhere his business or delight;
Out of our Valley's limit did he roam:
Full many a time, upon a stormy night,
His voice came to us from the neighbouring height:
Oft could we see him driving full in view
At mid-day when the sun was shining bright;
What ill was on him, what he had to do,
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.
Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man
When he came back to us, a withered flower,---
Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.
Down would he sit; and without strength or power
Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.
Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew;
For happier soul no living creature has
Than he had, beiug here the long day through.
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong;
But verse was what he had been wedded to;
And his own mind did like a tempest strong
Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along.
With him there often walked in friendly guise,
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable Man with large grey eyes,
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe;
Yet some did think that he had little business here:
Sweet heaven forfend! his was a lawful right;
Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;
His limbs would toss about him with delight
Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.
Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy
To banish listlessness and irksome care;
He would have taught you how you might employ
Yourself; and many did to him repair,---
And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare.
Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:
Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,
Made, to his ear attentively applied,
A pipe on which the wind would deftly play;
Glasses he had, that little things display,
The beetle panoplied in gems and gold,
A mailed angel on a battle-day;
The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold,
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
He would entice that other Man to hear
His music, and to view his imagery:
And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear:
No livelier love in such a place could be:
There did they dwellÑfrom earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen;
If but a bird, to keep them company,
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,
As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Partant Pour La Scribie
A pleasant land is Scribie, where
The light comes mostly from below,
And seems a sort of symbol rare
Of things at large, and how they go,
In rooms where doors are everywhere
And cupboards shelter friend or foe.
This is a realm where people tell
Each other, when they chance to meet,
Of things that long ago befell -
And do most solemnly repeat
Secrets they both know very well,
Aloud, and in the public street!
A land where lovers go in fours,
Master and mistress, man and maid;
Where people listen at the doors
Or 'neath a table's friendly shade,
And comic Irishmen in scores
Roam o'er the scenes all undismayed:
A land where Virtue in distress
Owes much to uncles in disguise;
Where British sailors frankly bless
Their limbs, their timbers, and their eyes;
And where the villain doth confess,
Conveniently, before he dies!
A land of lovers false and gay;
A land where people dread a 'curse;'
A land of letters gone astray,
Or intercepted, which is worse;
Where weddings false fond maids betray,
And all the babes are changed at nurse.
Oh, happy land, where things come right!
We of the world where things go ill;
Where lovers love, but don't unite;
Where no one finds the Missing Will -
Dominion of the heart's delight,
Scribie, we've loved, and love thee still!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Colin's Mistakes. Written In Imitation Of Spenser's Style
Fast by the banks of Cam was Colin bred,
(Ye Nymphs, for every guard that sacred stream)
To Wimple's woody shade his way he sped,
(Flourish those woods, the Muses' endless theme.)
As whilom Colin ancient books had read,
Lays Greek and Roman would he oft rehearse,
And much he loved, and much by heart he said,
What Father Spenser sung in British verse.
Who reads that bard desire like him to write,
Still fearful of success, still tempted by delight.
Soon as Aurora had unbarr'd the morn,
And light discover'd Nature's cheerful face,
The sounding clarion and the sprightly horn
Call'd the blithe huntsman to the distance chase.
Eftsoons they issue forth, a goodly band;
The deep mouth'd bounds with thunder rend the air,
The fiery coursers strike the rising sand,
Far through the thicket flies the frighted deer;
Harley the honour of the day supports,
His presence glads the woods, his orders guide the sports.
On a fair palfrey, well equipp'd, did sit
An Amazonian dame; a scarlet vest,
For active horsemanship adaptly fit,
Enclosed her dainty limbs; a plumed crest
Waved o'er her head; obedient by her side
Her friends and servants rode; with artful hand
Full well knew she the steed to turn and guide:
The willing steed received her soft command.
Courage and sweetness on her face was seated:
On her all eyes were bent, and all good wishes waited.
This seeing, Colin thus his Muse bespake,
For alltydes was the Muse to Colin nigh,
Ah me, too nigh! or, Clio, I mistake,
Or that bright form that pleaseth so mine eye,
Is Jove's fair daughter Pallas, gracious queen
Of liberal arts; with wonder and delight
In Homer's verse we read her; well I ween
That emulous of his Grecian master's flight,
Dan Spenser makes the favourite goddess known,
When in her graceful look fair Britomart is shown.
At noon as Colin to the castle came,
Oped were the gates, and right prepared the feast;
Appears at table richly clad a dame,
The lord's delight, the wonder of the guest;
With pearl and jewels was she sumptuous deck'd,
As well became her dignity and place,
But the beholders mought her gems neglect,
To fix their eyes on her more lovely face,
Serene with glory, and with softness bright:
O beauty sent from heaven to cheer the mortal sight!
Liberal Munificence behind her stood,
And decent State obey'd her high command,
And Charity, diffuse of native good,
At once portrays her mind and guides her hand.
As to each guest some fruits she deign'd to lift,
And silence with obliging parley broke,
How gracious seem'd to each th' imparted gift!
But how more gracious what the giver spoke!
Such ease, such freedom, did her deed attend,
That every guest rejoiced exalted to a friend.
Quoth Colin, Clio, if my feeble sense
Can well distinguish yon illustrious dame,
Who nobly doth such gentle gifts dispense
In Latian numbers, Juno is her name;
Great goddess who, with peace and plenty crown'd,
To all that under sky breathe vital air,
Diffuseth bliss, and through the world around
Pours wealthy ease, and scatters joyous cheer;
Certes of her in semblant guise I read,
Where Spenser decks his lays with Gloriana's deed.
As Colin mused at evening near the wood,
A nymph undress'd, beseemeth, by him pass'd,
Down to her feet her silken garment flow'd,
A riband bound and shaped her slender waist;
A veil dependent from her comely head,
And beauteous plenty of Ambrosial hair,
O'er her fair breast and lovely shoulders spread,
Behind fell loose, and wanton'd with the air:
The smiling Zephyrs call'd their amorous brothers,
They kiss'd the waving lawn, and wafted it to others.
Daisies and violets rose where'er she trod,
As Flora, kind, her roots and buds had sorted
And, led by Hymen, wedlock's mystic god,
Ten thousand Loves around the nymph disported.
Quoth Colin, Now I ken the goddess bright
Whom poets sing: all human hearts enthrall'd
Obey her power; her kindness the delight
Of gods and men; great Venus is she call'd,
When Mantuan Virgil doth her charms rehearse;
Belphebe is her name in gentle Edmund's verse.
Heard this the Muse, and with a smile replied,
Which show'd soft anger mix'd with friendly love;
Twin sisters still were Ignorance and Pride:
Can we know right till error we remove?
But Colin, well I wist will never learn;
Who slights his guide shall deviate from his way:
Me to have ask'd what thou couldst not discern
To thee pertain'd; to me the thing to say.
What heavenly will from human eye conceals,
How can the bard aread unless the Muse reveals?
Nor Pallas thou nor Britomart hast seen,
When soon at morn the flying deer was chased;
Nor Jove's great wife, nor Spenser's fairy Queen,
At noontide dealt the honours of the feast:
Nor Venus nor Belphebe didst thou spy,
The evening's glory and the groves delight;
Henceforth, if ask'd, instructed right, reply,
That all the day to knowing mortals' sight
Bright Ca'ndish-Holles Harley stood confess'd,
As various hour advised in various habit dress'd.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse
So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven it self for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then, believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air.
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet 21
So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
poem by William Shakespeare from Sonnets (1609)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Curiosity
Because of curiosity
All the Vandals had to see
The golden throne
Of Ancient Rome
And brought the city to its knees
Because of curiosity
Because of curiosity
I'm just riddled with anxiety
I'm the lowest level
As a matter of fact
I often dwell for days on this
But when I see your smiling face
I'm so disgraced
And if you're holding out on me
I get curious
As curious as I can be
Curious
Because of curiosity
Curiosity killed the cat
But satisfaction brought it back
In terms of this cat
As a matter of fact
I'll meet you at the old mouse hole
I'll meet you at the old mouse hole
When I see your smiling face
I'm so disgraced
If you're holding out on me
I get curious
As curious as I can be
Curious as I can be
Curious as I can be
Yeah, curiosity
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Praise of his Lady
GIVE place, you ladies, and begone!
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.
The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;
I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.
In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;
It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.
I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.
She may be well compared
Unto the Phoenix kind,
Whose like was never seen or heard,
That any man can find.
In life she is Diana chaste,
In troth Penelopey;
In word and eke in deed steadfast.
--What will you more we say?
If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.
Her rosial colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,
More ruddier, too, than doth the rose,
Within her lively face.
At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,
Ne at no wanton play,
Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as a stray.
The modest mirth that she doth use
Is mix'd with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.
O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck in her such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair.
Truly she doth so far exceed
Our women nowadays,
As doth the jeliflower a weed;
And more a thousand ways.
How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
--For all the rest are plain but chaff,
Which seem good corn to be.
This gift alone I shall her give;
When death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Hildebrand And Hellelil
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH.
Hellelil sitteth in bower there,
None knows my grief but God alone,
And seweth at the seam so fair,
I never wail my sorrow to any other one.
But there whereas the gold should be
With silk upon the cloth sewed she.
Where she should sew with silken thread
The gold upon the cloth she laid.
So to the Queen the word came in
That Hellelil wild work doth win.
Then did the Queen do furs on her
And went to Hellelil the fair.
“O swiftly sewest thou, Hellelil,
Yet nought but mad is thy sewing still!”
“Well may my sewing be but mad
Such evil hap as I have had.
My father was good king and lord,
Knights fifteen served before his board.
He taught me sewing royally,
Twelve knights had watch and ward of me.
Well served eleven day by day,
To folly the twelfth did me bewray.
And this same was hight Hildebrand,
The King’s son of the English Land.
But in bower were we no sooner laid
Than the truth thereof to my father was said.
Then loud he cried o’er garth and hall:
‘Stand up, my men, and arm ye all!
‘Yea draw on mail and dally not,
Hard neck lord Hildebrand hath got!’
They stood by the door with glaive and spear;
‘Hildebrand rise and hasten here!’
Lord Hildebrand stroked my white white cheek:
‘O love, forbear my name to speak.
‘Yea even if my blood thou see,
Name me not, lest my death thou be.’
Out from the door lord Hildebrand leapt,
And round about his good sword swept.
The first of all that he slew there
Were my seven brethren with golden hair.
Then before him stood the youngest one,
And dear he was in the days agone.
Then I cried out: ‘O Hildebrand,
In the name of God now stay thine hand.
‘O let my youngest brother live
Tidings hereof to my mother to give!’
No sooner was the word gone forth
Than with eight wounds fell my love to earth.
My brother took me by the golden hair,
And bound me to the saddle there.
There met me then no littlest root,
But it tore off somewhat of my foot.
No littlest brake the wild-wood bore,
But somewhat from my legs it tore.
No deepest dam we came unto
But my brother’s horse he swam it through.
But when to the castle gate we came,
There stood my mother in sorrow and shame.
My brother let raise a tower high,
Bestrewn with sharp thorns inwardly.
He took me in my silk shirt bare
And cast me into that tower there.
And wheresoe’er my legs I laid
Torment of the thorns I had.
Wheresoe’er on feet I stood
The prickles sharp drew forth my blood.
My youngest brother me would slay
But my mother would have me sold away.
A great new bell my price did buy
In Mary’s Church to hang on high.
But the first stroke that ever it strake
My mother’s heart asunder brake.”
So soon as her sorrow and woe was said,
None knows my grief but God alone,
In the arm of the Queen she sat there dead,
I never tell my sorrow to any other one.
poem by William Morris
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The Lake of the Thousand Isles
(For Music.)
Though Missouri'stide may majestic glide,
There's a curse on the soil it laves;
The Ohio, too, may be fair, but who
Would sojourn in the land of slaves?
Be my prouder lot a Canadian cot
And the bread of a freeman's toils;
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles!
I would seek no wealth, at the cost of health,
'Mid the city's din and strife;
More I love the grace of fair nature's face,
And the calm of a woodland life;
I would shun the road by ambition trod,
And the lore which the heart defiles;--
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles!
O away, away! I would gladly stray
Where the freedom I love is found;
Where the pine and oak by the woodman's stroke
Are disturbed in their ancient bound;
Where the gladsome swain reaps the golden grain,
And the trout from the stream beguiles;
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles.
poem by Evan MacColl
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The School-mistress. In Imitation of Spenser (excerpt)
Auditæ voces, vagitus et ingens,Infantunque animæ flentes in limine primo. Virg.ADVERTISEMENT
What particulars in Spenser were imagined most proper for the author's imitationon this occasion, are his language, his simplicity, his manner of description,and a peculiar tenderness of sentiment remarkable throughout his works.
Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest worth neglected lies;
While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize!
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies;
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.
In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire,
Embow'r'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we school-mistress name;
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame;
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which learning near her little dome did stowe;
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow;
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low;
And, as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I seen (who has not, may conceive,)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast:
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.
Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door impris'ning board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray;
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!
The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,
Do learning's little tenement betray:
Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for scepter, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwin'd,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd;
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind.
Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet pourtray'd,
The childish faces of old Eol's train;
Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array'd,
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main,
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein?
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
And were not she her statutes to maintain,
The cott no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell,
Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell.
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around,
Thro' pious awe, did term it passing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground
Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth,
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;
Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear:
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere:
For never title yet so mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind which did that title love.
One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came;
Such favour did her past deportment claim:
And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.
...
poem by William Shenstone
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A Coin Of Little Worth
I have seen and liked
silver coins stamped
in ancient Greece Rome
these usually carry the image
of supposedly great men
kings emperors face in profile
but their deeds were often
treacherous harsh cruel
wars these started for more
wealth slaves land to rule
my favourite coin
is a very small coin
tiny of little worth
that a woman with nothing
once gave at the temple
a very very long time ago
My Lord praised her
for giving all her livelihood
for giving more than
all gathered rich worshippers
combined because
proud rich gave a percentage
from all their amassed profit
a percentage calculated
based upon requirements of
law; but a poor woman gave
everything she had
based upon her own giving heart
it is written how Jesus sat down;
with the treasury chests in view
observing how the crowd dropped
money into the treasury chests;
many rich people were dropping in
many coins however a poor
widow woman dropped in only two
small coins which had very little value;
these coins became known as the widow's mite.
Jesus called his disciples and said to them
"Truly I say to YOU that this poor widow
dropped in more than all those dropping
money into the treasury chests; for they
all dropped in out of their surplus,
but she dropped in all of what
she had, her whole living." Mark 12: 41-44.
For the love of God.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Prothalamion
Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
When I (whom sullen care,
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In prince's court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain),
Walk'd forth to ease my pain
Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
And crown their paramours,
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
There, in a meadow, by the river's side,
A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied,
As each had been a bride;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalks on high.
Of every sort, which in that meadow grew,
They gathered some; the violet, pallid blue,
The little daisy, that at evening closes,
The virgin lily, and the primrose true,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegrooms' posies
Against the bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
With that I saw two swans of goodly hue
Come softly swimming down along the Lee;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew,
Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be,
For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seem'd foul to them, and bad his billows spare
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
And mar their beauties bright,
That shone as heaven's light,
Against their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the crystal flood;
Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still,
Their wond'ring eyes to fill;
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair,
Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
For sure they did not seem
To be begot of any earthly seed,
But rather angels, or of angels' breed;
Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
The earth did fresh array;
So fresh they seem'd as day,
Even as their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
All which upon those goodly birds they threw
And all the waves did strew,
That like old Peneus' waters they did seem,
When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore,
Scatt'red with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
That they appear through lilies' plenteous store,
Like a bride's chamber floor.
Two of those nymphs, meanwhile, two garlands bound
Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim array,
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd,
Whilst one did sing this lay,
Prepar'd against that day,
Against their bridal day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
"Ye gentle birds, the world's fair ornament
And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content
Of your love's complement;
And let fair Venus, that is Queen of Love,
With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
For ever to assoil.
Let endless Peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessed Plenty wait upon your board:
And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
That fruitful issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joys redound
Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song."
So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said their bridal day should not be long;
And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous birds did pass along,
Adown the Lee, that to them murmur'd low,
As he would speak, but that he lack'd a tongue,
Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
Making his stream run slow.
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
Did on those two attend,
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
At length they all to merry London came,
To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
That to me gave this life's first native source,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of ancient fame.
There when they came, whereas those bricky towers
The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide,
Till they decay'd through pride:
Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace
Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case:
But ah! here fits not well
Old woes, but joys, to tell
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder,
Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,
And Hercules' two pillars standing near
Did make to quake and fear:
Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry,
That fillest England with thy triumph's fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
And endless happiness of thine own name
That promiseth the same;
That through thy prowess, and victorious arms,
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms;
And great Eliza's glorious name may ring
Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,
Which some brave Muse may sing
To ages following,
Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair,
Descended to the river's open viewing,
With a great train ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to be seen
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight,
Which deck the baldric of the heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
Receiv'd those two fair brides, their love's delight;
Which, at th' appointed tide,
Each one did make his bride
Against their bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Cross The Green Mountain
I cross the Green Mountain
I sit by the stream
Heaven blazing in my head I
I dreamt a monsterous dream
Something came up
Out of the sea
Swept through the land of
The rich and the free
I look into the eyes
of my merciful friend
And then I ask myself
Is this the end?
Memories linger
Sad yet sweet
And I think of the souls in heaven who will be
Alters are burning
The flames far and wide
the fool has crossed over
from the other side
They tip their caps
from the top of the hill
You can feel them come
All brave blood do spill
Along the dim
Atlantic line
The rapper's land
lasts for miles behind
the lights coming foreward
and the streets are broad
all must yield
To the avenging God
The world is old
The world is great
Lessons of life
Can't be learned in a day
I watch and I wait
And I listen while I stand
To the music that comes
from a far better land
Close the eyes
of our Captain
Peace may he know
His long night is done
The great leader is laid low
He was ready to fall
He was quick to defend
Killed outright he was
by his own men
It's the last day's last hour
of the last happy year
I feel that the unknown
The world is so dear
Pride will vanish
And glory will rot
But virtue lives
and cannot be forgot
The bells
of evening have rung
there's blasphemy
on the end of the tongue
Let them say that I walked
in fair nature's light
And that I was loyal
to truth and to right
Serve God and meet your full
Look upward beyond
Beyond the darkness that masks
the surprises of dawn
In the deep green grasses
and the blood stained woods
They never dreamed of surrendering
They fell where they stood
Stars fell over Alabama
And I saw each star
You're walking in dreams
Whoever you are
Chilled as the skies
Keen as the frost
And the ground's froze hard
And the morning is lost
A letter to mother
came today
Gunshot wound to the breast
is what it did say
But he'll be better soon
He's in a hospital bed
But he'll never be better
He's already dead
I'm ten miles outside the city
And I'm lifted away
In an ancient light
That is not of day
They were calm they were gloomed
We knew them all too well
We loved eachother more than
we ever dared to tell
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Escape of the Old Grey Squirrel
Old Grey Squirrel might have been
Almost anything -
Might have been a soldier, sailor,
Tinker, tailor
(Never a beggar-man, though, nor thief).
Might have been, perhaps, a king,
Or an Indian chief.
He remained a City clerk
Doubled on a great high stool,
Totting up, from dawn to dark,
Figures, figures, figures, figures,
Red ink, black ink, double rule,
Tot-tot-totting with his pen,
Up and down and round again -
Curious Old Grey Squirrel.
No one ever really knew
What he did at night,
In his room so near the roof,
Up those steep and narrow stairs.
Old Grey Squirrel wasn't quite
The same as other men.
What he said was always true;
He was like a little child
In a thousand things.
Something shy and delicate,
Cold and grave and undefiled,
Seemed to keep him quite aloof.
You could never call him lonely,
Though he lived with memory there.
When he knelt beside his bed
He had nothing much to say
But the simplest little prayer
Learned in childhood, long ago,
And he didn't know or care
Whether Calvinists might call it
Praying for the dead.
Father, mother, sister, brother -
Memories clear as evening bells;
Yes, the very sort of thing
All your clever little scribblers
Love to satirize and sting,
So let's talk of something else.
He collected stamps, you know,
Commonplace Old Squirrel.
Ah, but could you see him there,
When the day's grey work was done,
Poring over his new stamps
With that wise old air;
Looking up the curious places
In his tattered atlas, too
Lands of jungle and of sun,
Ivory tusks and dusky faces,
Whence his latest treasure flew
Like a tropic moth, he thought,
To flutter round his dying lamp. . . .
Visions are not bought and sold;
But, when the foreign mail came in
Bringing his employers news
Of copper, sulphide, zinc and tin
(And the red resultant gold),
Envelopes were thrown away,
So, of course, one clearly sees
He could pick, and he could choose,
Having, as he used to say,
'Very great advantages.'
Rarities could not be bought.
Bus fares don't leave much for spending
On a flight to Zipangu.
All the same, one never knew.
All things come to those who wait -
Isles of palm in rose and blue,
India, China and Peru,
And the Golden Gate.
So he'd turn his treasures over -
Mauve and crimson, buff and cream -
Every stamp an elfin window
Opening on a boy's lost dream.
'Curious, curious, that's Jamaica,
That's Hong Kong (the twopenny red),
I've no doubt they are well worth seeing,
Well worth seeing,' Old Squirrel said.
'Curious' - curious was his word -
Old Grey Squirrel remembered a day
Sitting alone in a whispering fir-wood
(This was in boyhood before they caught him)
Writing a story of far Cathay,
A tale that his friends would think absurd
But would make him famous when he was dead.
'Curious' - thinking of all those years,
All those dreams that had drifted away -
Once, he had thought - but the years had taught him,
Taught him better, and bowed his head.
'Curious' - memory clings and lingers -
Clings - the smell of the fir wood - clings . . .
Through his wrinkled ink-stained fingers,
'Curious, curious,' trickled the tears,
Curious Old Grey Squirrel.
No, you'd hardly call it weeping.
Old Grey Squirrel could not weep.
Head on arm, he might have been
Sleeping; but he did not know.
Most of us are sound asleep;
And, that Christmas Eve, it seems,
He awoke, at last, from dreams.
Gently, as a woman's hand
Something touched him on the brow,
And he woke, in that strange land -
Where he lives for ever now.
All things come to those who wait -
Palms against a deeper blue,
Far Cathay and Zipangu,
And the Golden Gate.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Genesis BK IV
ll. 169-191) ....It did not seem good to the Lord of heaven that
Adam should longer be alone as warden and keeper of this new
Paradise. Wherefore the King, Almighty God, wrought him an
helpmeet; the Author of life made woman and brought her unto the
man whom He loved. He took the stuff of Adam's body, and
secretly drew forth a rib from his side. He was fast asleep in
peaceful slumber; he knew no pain nor any pang; there came no
blood from out the wound, but the Lord of angels drew forth from
his body a growing rib, and the man was unhurt. Of this God
fashioned a lovely maid, breathing into her life and an eternal
soul. They were like unto the angels. The bride of Adam was a
living spirit. By God's might both were born into the world in
the loveliness of youth. They knew no sin nor any evil, but in
the hearts of both there burned the love of God.
(ll. 192-195) Then the Gracious King, Lord of all human kind,
blessed these two, male and female, man and wife, and spake this
word:
(ll. 196-205) "Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the green earth
with your seed and increase, sons and daughters. And ye shall
have dominion over the salt sea, and over all the world. Enjoy
the riches of earth, the fish of the sea, and the fowls of the
air. To you is given power over the herds which I have hallowed,
and the wild beasts, and over all living things that move upon
the earth; all living things, which the depths bring forth
throughout the sea, shall be subject unto you."
((LACUNA -- One or more leaves missing))
(ll. 206-234) And our Lord beheld the beauty of His works and the
abundance of all fruits of this new creation: Paradise lay
pleasant and inviting, filled with goodly store and endless
blessings. Bountifully a running stream, a welling spring,
watered that pleasant land. Not yet did clouds, dark with wind,
carry the rains across the spacious earth; nathless the land lay
decked with increase. Out from this new Paradise four pleasant
brooks of water flowed. All were divisions of one beauteous
stream, sundered by the might of God when He made the earth, and
sent into the world. And one of these the mortal dwellers of
earth called Pison, which compasseth the land of Havilah about
with shining waters. And in that land, as books tell us, the
sons of men from far and near find out the best of gold and
precious gems. And the second floweth round about the land and
borders of the Ethiopians, a spacious kingdom. Its name is
Gihon. The third is Tigris, whose abundant stream lieth about
the limits of Assyria. Likewise also the fourth, which now
through many a folk-land men call Euphrates....
((LACUNA -- At least one, possibly two, leaves missing))
Cornelia’s Jewels
Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride,
Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide:
No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair,
No gems were mingled ’mid her waves of dark and glossy hair;
And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien,
A woman in her gentle grace—in majesty a queen.
While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting air,
And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare,
And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal light,
Proudly she glanced her dark eye o’er the store of jewels bright.
”Rich as these are,“ she answered then, ”and dazzling as they shine,
They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!
“You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear,
Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?”
The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight
Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might;
She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed to shine,
And murmur’d, “Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?”
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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My Lady Nature and her Daughters
Ladies, well I deem, delight
In comely tire to move;
Soft, and delicate, and bright,
Are the robes they love.
Silks, where hues alternate play,
Shawls, and scarfs, and mantles gay,
Gold, and gems, and crispèd hair,
Fling their light o'er lady fair.
'Tis not waste, nor sinful pride,
—Name them not, nor fault beside,—
But her very cheerfulness
Prompts and weaves the curious dress;
While her holy thoughts still roam
Mid birth-friends and scenes of home.
Pleased to please whose praise is dear,
Glitters she? she glitters there;—
And she has a pattern found her
In Nature's glowing world around her.
Nature loves, as lady bright,
In gayest guise to shine,
All forms of grace, all tints of light,
Fringe her robe divine.
Sun-lit heaven, and rain-bow cloud,
Changeful main, and mountain proud,
Branching tree, and meadow green,
All are deck'd in broider'd sheen.
Not a bird on bough-propp'd tower,
Insect slim, nor tiny flower,
Stone, nor spar, nor shell of sea,
But is fair in its degree.
'Tis not pride, this vaunt of beauty;
Well she 'quits her trust of duty;
And, amid her gorgeous state,
Bright, and bland, and delicate,
Ever beaming from her face
Praise of a Father's love we trace.
Ladies, shrinking from the view
Of the prying day,
In tranquil diligence pursue
Their heaven-appointed way.
Noiseless duties, silent cares,
Mercies lighting unawares,
Modest influence working good,
Gifts, by the keen heart understood,
Such as viewless spirits might give,
These they love, in these they live.—
Mighty Nature speeds her through
Her daily toils in silence too:
Calmly rolls her giant spheres,
Sheds by stealth her dew's kind tears;
Cheating sage's vex'd pursuit,
Churns the sap, matures the fruit,
And, her deft hand still concealing,
Kindles motion, life, and feeling.
Ladies love to laugh and sing,
To rouse the chord's full sound,
Or to join the festive ring
Where dancers gather round.
Not a sight so fair on earth,
As a lady's graceful mirth;
Not a sound so chasing pain,
As a lady's thrilling strain.—
Nor is Nature left behind
In her lighter moods of mind;
Calm her duties to fulfil,
In her glee a prattler still.
Bird and beast of every sort
Hath its antic and its sport;
Chattering brook, and dancing gnat,
Subtle cry of evening bat,
Moss uncouth, and twigs grotesque,
These are Nature's picturesque.
Where the birth of Poesy?
Its fancy and its fire?
Nature's earth, and sea, and sky,
Fervid thoughts inspire.
Where do wealth and power find rest,
When hopes have fail'd, or toil oppress'd?
Parks, and lawns, and deer, and trees,
Nature's work, restore them ease.—
Rare the rich, the gifted rare,—
Where shall work-day souls repair,
Unennobled, unrefined,
From the rude world and unkind?
Who shall friend their lowly lot?
High-born Nature answers not.
Leave her in her starry dome,
Seek we lady-lighted home.
Nature 'mid the spheres bears sway,
Ladies rule where hearts obey.
poem by John Henry Cardinal Newman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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