An Hymn To Sleep.
Written when the Author was sick.
Somnus, pow'rful Deity,
Mortals owe their Bliss to thee.
How long shall I thy Absence mourn,
And when be bless'd in thy Return?
Relentless God! why will you flee,
And take Delight to torture me:
Or do you kindly flight my Pray'r,
To make me for my Change prepare?
'Tis well this Happiness remains;
When you resuse to ease our Pains,
Your Brother Death your Place supplies,
And kindly seals the Wretch's Eyes.
poem by Mary Barber
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Epithalamium : Another Version
Night, with all thine eyes look down!
Darkness shed its holiest dew!
When ever smiled the inconstant moon
On a pair so true?
Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.
BOYS:
O joy! O fear! what may be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
The golden gates of sleep unbar!
When strength and beauty meet together,
Kindles their image like a star
In a sea of glassy weather.
Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.
GIRLS:
O joy! O fear! what may be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
Fairies! sprites! and angels, keep her!
Holiest powers, permit no wrong!
And return, to wake the sleeper,
Dawn, ere it be long.
Hence, swift hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, coy hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.
BOYS AND GIRLS:
O joy! O fear! what will be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Epithalamium
Another Version Of 'A Bridal Song'.
Night, with all thine eyes look down!
Darkness shed its holiest dew!
When ever smiled the inconstant moon
On a pair so true?
Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.
BOYS:
O joy! O fear! what may be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
The golden gates of sleep unbar!
When strength and beauty meet together,
Kindles their image like a star
In a sea of glassy weather.
Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.
GIRLS:
O joy! O fear! what may be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
Fairies! sprites! and angels, keep her!
Holiest powers, permit no wrong!
And return, to wake the sleeper,
Dawn, ere it be long.
Hence, swift hour! and quench thy light,
Lest eyes see their own delight!
Hence, coy hour! and thy loved flight
Oft renew.
BOYS AND GIRLS:
O joy! O fear! what will be done
In the absence of the sun?
Come along!
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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To Isa in Heaven
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven! — Young.
Where is she now?
Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art?
If death has laid his hand upon thy brow,
Has he not touched my heart?
Has he not laid it in the grave with thine,
And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine!
If thou were dead,
I would not ask thee to reply;
But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled
To heaven, where it can never die!
Then why not come to me? Return—return
And comfort me, for I have much to mourn!
I sigh all day!
I mourn for thee the livelong night!
And when the next night comes, thou art away,
And so is absent my delight!
Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate,
So is my soul for thee disconsolate!
I long for death—
For any thing—to be with thee!
I did inhale, alas! thy dying breath,
That it might have some power on me
To make me what thou art!—but, thou art dead!
And I am here!—it strengthened me instead!
Joy there is none—
It went into the grave with thee!
And grief, because my spirit is alone,
Is all that comes to comfort me!
The very air I breathe is turned to sighs,
And all mine soul is melting from mine eyes!
I hear, at even,
The liquid carol of birds;
Their music makes me think of thee in heaven,
It is so much like thy sweet words.
The brooklet whispers, as it runs along,
Our first love-story with its liquid tongue.
Wake, Isa! wake!
And come back in this world again!
Oh! come down to me, for my soul's dear sake,
And cure me of this trying pain!
I would give all that earth to man can be,
If thou wert only in this world with me!
Day after day
I seek thee, but thou art not near!
I sit down on thy grave in the cold clay,
And listen for thy soul!—oh! dear!
And when some withered leaf falls from the tree,
I start as if thy soul had spoke to me!
And so it is,
And so it ever more must ever be
To him, who has been robbed of all the bliss
He ever knew, by loving thee!
For misery, in thine absence, is my wife!
What joy had been, hadst thou remained in life!
It is now even;
The birds have sung themselves to sleep;
And all the stars seem coming out of heaven,
As if to look upon me weep!—
Oh! let me not look up to thee in vain,
But come back to me in this world again!
poem by Thomas Holley Chivers (1842)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Way To Happiness
How long ye miserable blind
Shall idle dreams engage your mind,
How long the passions make their flight
At empty shadows of delight?
No more in paths of error stray,
The Lord thy Jesus is the way,
The spring of happiness, and where
Shou'd men seek happiness but there?
Then run to meet him at your need,
Run with boldness, run with speed,
For he forsook his own abode
To meet thee more than half the road.
He laid aside his radiant crown
And love for mankind brought him down
To thirst and hunger, pain and woe,
To wounds, to death it self below,
And he that suffer'd these alone
For all the World, despises none.
To bid the soul that's sick be clean,
To bring the lost to life again,
To comfort those that grieve for ill,
Is his peculiar goodness still.
And as the thoughts of parents run
Upon a dear and only son,
So kind a love his mercies shew,
So kind and more extreamly so.
Thrice happy men (or find a phrase
That speaks your bliss with greater praise)
Who most obedient to thy call
Leaving pleasures leaving all,
With heart with soul, with strength incline
O sweetest Jesu! to be thine;
Who know thy will, observe thy ways,
And in thy service spend their days:
E'en death that seems to set them free
But brings them closer still to thee.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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To Music, To Becalm His Fever
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers;
That being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou Power that canst sever
From me this ill;--
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire,
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep,
And give me such reposes,
That I, poor I,
May think, thereby,
I live and die
'Mongst roses.
Fall on me like a silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers,
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains;
That having ease me given,
With full delight,
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For Heaven.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Loving One Writes
THE look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress
The pledge thy lips to mine convey,--the kiss,--
He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this,
Can he in aught beside find happiness?
Removed from thee, friend-sever'd, in distress,
These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:
They still return to that one hour of bliss,
The only one; then tears my grief confess.
But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:
He loves, methinks, e'en to these glades so still,--
And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?
Receive the murmurs of his loving sigh;
My only joy on earth is in thy will,
Thy kindly will tow'rd me; a token send!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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What Happiness Is
happiness
is bliss
happiness,
is when you get a new puppy
happiness,
is when you get married
happiness,
is when you go on you first date
happiness,
is making your own decisions
happiness,
is graduating
happiness,
is getting you first job
happiness,
is falling in love
happiness
is being proud of who you are
happiness
is bliss
happiness,
is glowing
happiness,
is fun
happiness,
is an amazing feeling
happiness,
is when you smile all day
happiness,
is giving someone a hug just because you can
happiness,
is that light in your eyes
happiness,
is what makes the world go around
happiness,
is bliss
Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth
Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”
poem by William Morris
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Neither Here, Nor There!
Values change, cultures change
Traditions change, thoughts change!
'Old' not made its exit yet
Nor 'new' made its entry right!
Tradition struggles
Modernity haunts!
Neither here, nor there I am
Unable to make out where I stand!
Betwixt I remain confused
'Old' in me pulls me that side
'Youth' in me pushes me this side
Know not when I be transfused!
Pains of confusion
Pangs of revulsion
Make life a miserable plight
Amidst this gloom' Lead kindly light'
poem by Subbaraman N V
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Scenes In London IV - The City Churchyard
I PRAY thee lay me not to rest
Among these mouldering bones;
Too heavily the earth is prest
By all these crowded stones.
Life is too gay—life is too near—
With all its pomp and toil;
I pray thee do not lay me here,
In such a world-struck soil.
The ceaseless roll of wheels would wake
The slumbers of the dead;
I cannot bear for life to make
Its pathway o'er my head.
The flags around are cold and drear,
They stand apart, alone;
And no one ever pauses here,
To sorrow for the gone.
No: lay me in the far green fields
The summer sunshine cheers;
And where the early wild flower yields
The tribute of its tears.
Where shadows the sepulchral yew,
Where droops the willow tree,
Where the long grass is filled with dew—
Oh! make such grave for me!
And passers-by, at evening's close,
Will pause beside the grave,
And moralize o'er the repose
They fear, and yet they crave.
Perhaps some kindly hand may bring
Its offering to the tomb;
And say, As fades the rose in spring,
So fadeth human bloom.
But here there is no kindly thought
To soothe, and to relieve;
No fancies and no flowers are brought,
That soften while they grieve.
Here Poesy and Love come not—
It is a world of stone;
The grave is bought—is closed—forgot!
And then life hurries on.
Sorrow and beauty—nature—love—
Redeem man's common breath;
Ah! let them shed the grave above—
Give loveliness to death.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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God give Them Strength
God give them Strength
like you did me God
bless those who were related
to the people of flight 3407
please bless those
because they
mourn Love them
and my heart goes
out to them
god give them
strength and
bless them so
Those they
Mourn and
Respectively so
Bless them with
Health and strength
As they continue on
In their lives
God bless to all of
You and remember
There in heaven.
poem by Khilil Perry
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A Hymn for Evening
The beam-repelling mists arise,
And evening spreads obscurer skies;
The twilight will the night forerun,
And night itself be soon begun.
Upon thy knees devoutly bow,
And pray the Lord of glory now
To fill thy breast, or deadly sin
May cause a blinder night within.
And whether pleasing vapours rise
Which gently dim the closing eyes,
Which make the weary members bless'd
With sweet refreshment in their rest,
Or whether spirits in the brain
Dispel their soft embrace again,
And on my watchful bed I stay,
Forsook by sleep and waiting day,
Be God for ever in my view
And never He forsake me, too;
But, still as day concludes in night
To break again with new-born light,
His wondrous bounty let me find
With still a more enlighten'd mind
When grace and love in one agree,
Grace from God, and love from me,
Grace that will from heaven inspire,
Love that seals it with desire,
Grace and love that mingle beams,
And fill me with encreasing flames.
Thou that hast Thy palace far
Above the moon and every star,
Thou that sittest on a throne
To which the night was never known,
Regard my voice and make me bless'd,
By kindly granting its request.
If thoughts on Thee my soul employ,
My darkness will afford me joy,
'Till Thou shalt call, and I shall soar,
And part with darkness evermore.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Lord, with Glowing Heart I'd Praise Thee
Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee,
For the bliss Thy love bestows,
For the pardoning grace that saves me,
And the peace that from it flows:
Help, O God, my weak endeavor;
This dull soul to rapture raise:
Thou must light the flame, or never
Can my love be warmed to praise.
Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee,
Wretched wanderer, far astray;
Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee
From the paths of death away;
Praise, with love's devoutest feeling,
Him Who saw thy guilt-born fear,
And the light of hope revealing,
Bade the blood-stained cross appear.
Praise thy Savior God that drew thee
To that cross, new life to give,
Held a blood sealed pardon to thee,
Bade thee look to Him and live.
Praise the grace whose threats alarmed thee,
Roused thee from thy fatal ease;
Praise the grace whose promise warmed thee,
Praise the grace that whispered peace.
Lord, this bosom's ardent feeling
Vainly would my lips express.
Low before Thy footstool kneeling,
Deign Thy suppliant's prayer to bless:
Let Thy grace, my soul's chief treasure,
Love's pure flame within me raise;
And, since words can never measure,
Let my life show forth Thy praise.
poem by Francis Scott Key
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To The Right Honourable The Lady Kilmorey
Start not, nor tremble at the Sight of this;
It comes not written from the Realms of Bliss:
'Tis true, you see, your once--lov'd Roydon's Hand;
Thence may conclude from Heav'n some high Command;
Conscious perhaps of your celestial Frame,
You think you're call'd to Worlds from whence you came.
Not so--but ere her Soul began its Flight,
She thought of you, and staid a--while to write;
Kindly for me her dying Suit address'd:
Then view it, Madam, as her last Request.
poem by Mary Barber
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March
Slayer of the winter, art thou here again?
O welcome, thou that's bring'st the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Make April ready for the throstle's song,
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!
Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June,
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,
Striving to swell the burden of the tune
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,
Unmindful of the past or coming days;
Who sing: 'Oh joy! a new year is begun:
What happiness to look upon the sun!'
Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss
But death himself, who crying solemnly,
E'en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,
Bids us 'Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die,
Within a little time must ye go by.
Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live
Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give.'
poem by William Morris
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Astrophel and Stella: XXXIII
I might!--unhappy word--O me, I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss;
Till now wrapt in a most infernal night,
I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss.
Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right;
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,
No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight,
Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is;
But to myself myself did give the blow,
While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me
That I respects for both our sakes must show:
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near: O punish'd eyes,
That I had been more foolish,--or more wise!
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet XXXIII: I Might
I might!--unhappy word--O me, I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss;
Till now wrapt in a most infernal night,
I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss.
Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right;
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,
No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight,
Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is;
But to myself myself did give the blow,
While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me
That I respects for both our sakes must show:
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near: O punish'd eyes,
That I had been more foolish,--or more wise!
poem by Philip Sidney
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A Father's Prayerful 'Conversation' With His Daughters
I wonder: do you yet know the power and import of prayer?
I ponder upon this, as surely you long too, for my presence there!
I miss thee as no means of word may properly expound;
The depths of my heart's lamentation is truly profound!
Upon that wretched day, lo so long ago, it was ripped to shred,
Each new day whereupon I lack thee, is a day I do dread!
Those that have sighted thee, tell me of your grace and lightness,
This is little consolation, I yearn still witness of your ladylikeness!
Nary a moment does pass whence thoughts of thee are not near,
Daddy is fighting for both of us-of this have not, any fear!
My return to thee is written by Him, it is all of which I ruminate;
What hath been imposed upon us is loathsome, this does obviate!
He said unto me: 'My child, much pain I have brought to bear
To assure you, the import of the child for which you shall again care;
For she is the most obvious form of the love I have for thee;
Nary is there to draw compare to the fidelity of thine own-she
Too, for thee, though comprehension full escapes her yet,
She doth pray for same, and has, since last you each met!
Her's is a devotion sans pareil, I question it not for one moment,
Each is ameliorate due the other-soon you shall see My affordment! '
My beloved Daughter, as He hath spoken, unto me and thee, same-
We each may take comfort in what remains to come, not, what came;
Our past is but a prologue, for our future's unity is indeed, bright;
Restored, our covenant-then, e'er, you shan't be taken from my sight!
As we do await this, our reunion, ponder upon memories, precious-
This shall allay any all moments you may have of my return, anxious;
In my absence, I assure thee, nary is there, than you, more import-
I, as you, am exceedingly anticipatory of our impending consort!
Maurice Harris,29 November 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
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A War Song to Englishmen
Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war,
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
Th' Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
And casts them out upon the darken'd earth!
Prepare, prepare!
Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand! prepare
Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth;
Prepare your arms for glorious victory;
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!
Prepare, prepare!
Whose fatal scroll is that? Methinks 'tis mine!
Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue?
Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause,
And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field.
Prepare, prepare!
The arrows of Almighty God are drawn!
Angels of Death stand in the louring heavens!
Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light,
And walk together on the clouds of heaven!
Prepare, prepare!
Soldiers, prepare! Our cause is Heaven's cause;
Soldiers, prepare! Be worthy of our cause:
Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky:
Prepare, O troops, that are to fall to-day!
Prepare, prepare!
Alfred shall smile, and make his harp rejoice;
The Norman William, and the learnèd Clerk,
And Lion Heart, and black-brow'd Edward, with
His loyal queen, shall rise, and welcome us!
Prepare, prepare!
poem by William Blake
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Hymn, Imitated from The French
I.
CALM all the tumults that invade
Our souls, and lend Thy pow'rful aid.
O Source of Mercy! soothe our pains,
And break, O break our cruel chains!
To Thee the captive pours his cry,
To Thee the mourner loves to fly;
The incense of our tears receive,
'Tis all the incense we can give.
II.
Eternal Power, our cause defend,
O God! of innocence the friend!
Near Thee for ever she resides,
In Thee for ever she confides;
Thou know'st the secrets of the breast,
Thou know'st th' oppressor and th' opprest;
Do Thou our wrongs with pity see,
Avert a doom offending Thee!
III.
But should the murd'rer's arm prevail,
Should tyranny our lives assail,
Unmov'd, triumphant, scorning death,
We'll bless Thee with our latest breath!-
The hour, the glorious hour will come,
That consecrates the patriot's tomb;
And, with the pang our mem'ry claims,
Our country will avenge our names.
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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