En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Epilogue To A Comedy Acted At Bath,

Ladies, this Entertainment we have shown,
Has not been rightly suited, I must own.
Heroic Virtue should have been display'd,
And Homage to heroic Virtue paid.
Low Comedy supplies but mean Delight;
Some Heroine should have grac'd our Scenes Tonight,
First Fortune's Favours, then her Frowns to feel,
Unmov'd, unshaken, on her tott'ring Wheel;
With Wisdom blest by Heav'n's peculiar Care,
Too great to be elated, or despair;
A lovely Form, and an excelling Mind,
To all that Providence ordains, resign'd;
Rever'd by All, Delight of ev'ry Eye,
Humane and humble, when exalted high;
From Princes sprung, and gloriously ally'd,
At once her Sex's, and her Country's Pride;
Whose Soul, superior to all earthly State,
Shines with new Lustre 'midst the Storms of Fate.

Then had the Audience wept her Woes anew,
And own'd the Poet was prophetic too;
Foresaw Plantagenet's imperial Race
Would such a Heroine give us, in Your Grace.

poem by Mary Barber
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To The Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Boyle On Her Birth—Day

May each new Year some new Perfection give,
Till all the Mother in the Daughter live!
May'st Thou her Virtues to the World restore!
And be what Henrietta was before!
And when revolving Years mature thy Charms,
When Pride of Conquest thy fair Bosom warms,
May some great Youth, for ev'ry Grace renown'd,
With Taste and Science bless'd, by Virtue crown'd;
By Virtue guarded from Ambition's Wiles,
Superior both to Fortune's Frowns and Smiles;
Who wears the Honours of a glorious Name,
Yet to Distinction bears a nobler Claim;
Like a new Star, in native Lustre bright,
That boasts no Radiance from reflected Light:
Allow'd the rising Genius of his Age;
By ev'ry Excellence thy Heart engage;
Like Him who bless'd thy Mother's Nuptial State;
But O! may Heav'n give Thine a longer Date.

poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Mary Caesar

I read in your delighted Face,
The Nuptial Bands are ty'd:
From me congratulate her Grace,
Young Portland's lovely Bride.

Tell her, an humble, artless Muse
Would hail the happy Pair;
But that, like Flow'rs by deadly Dews,
Her Strains are damp'd by Care.

Those whom the tuneful Nine inspire,
Have now a spacious Field:
To them I must resign the Lyre,
To none in Wishes yield.

May Prudence still the Fair attend,
Who, with distinguish'd Taste,
In Caesar early chose a Friend,
With ev'ry Virtue grac'd:

Who back a thousand Years may trace,
And her Descent maintain,
From Ademar's illustrious Race,
Ally'd to Charlemain.

poem by Mary Barber
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Occasion'd By Reading The Memoirs Of Anne Of Austria

Ye heedless Fair, who pass the live--long Day,
In Dress and Scandal, Gallantry and Play;
Who thro' new Scenes of Pleasure hourly run,
Whilst Life's important Business is undone;
Look here, when guilty Conquests make you vain,
And see, how sad Remorse shuts up the Scene.

If future Bliss, or Misery, must flow
From what the Heart delights in here below,
Think how these Habits, rooted in the Breast,
Will fit you for a Commerce with the Blest.

Ye Politicians, who, in Courts to shine,
Study the Maxims of the Florentine;
Who, void of Virtue, anxious to be great,
Would rise, tho' on the Ruins of the State;
See how delusive are Ambition's Dreams,
See Providence defeating all your Schemes:
The Hand divine the well--laid Plot prevents,
And dashes all with unforeseen Events.
Yet the short--sighted Atheist dares advance,
These wondrous Changes are the Work of Chance.
Not so this pious, penetrating Dame,
Who to the sacred Fountain trac'd the Stream:
Like lovely Hertford, who her Hours employs,
To form her Mind for never--fading Joys.

Excelling Fair! whom All so justly prize;
Who, in a Court, find Leisure to be wise;
Humane and humble, pious and sincere;
Who walk, untainted, thro' infectious Air;
Thou Honour to thy Sex! may I pursue
The Paths of Wisdom, early trod by you!
I, who am destin'd to a low Estate,
Free from the Vanities that vex the Great;
Blest with a Happiness to Courts unknown;
For I, thank Heav'n, may call my Hours my own:
O may I pass those Hours in such a Way,
As may prepare me for the last, great Day!
That I may, unappall'd, lift up my Head,
When the Arch--Angel calls--Arise, ye Dead.
When all the haughty, pompous Sons of Dust,
Who here in fleeting Treasures plac'd their Trust;
Who here, to their Confusion largely quaff'd
Prosperity's intoxicating Draught;
Till drunk with Blessings, they despis'd their God,
Arraign'd his Wifdom, and defy'd his Rod;
Too late shall find, that Arm they durst oppose,
Can pour eternal Vengeance on his Foes.

Reflect, my Soul, that Day is drawing near;
And timely think, what was thy Business here.
O Thou, whose Arm, reach'd down from Heav'n to save,
So lately snatch'd me from the op'ning Grave;
Who bow'd thine Ear, nor let me sue in vain,
Reliev'd my Sickness, and remov'd my Pain;
In hallow'd Strains, O, teach my Soul to soar,
To celebrate the Mercies I adore!
To Thee alone to dedicate my Lays,
Who heard my Vows, and added to my Days!
Watch o'er my Heart, fix ev'ry Duty there,
And make Eternity my only Care.

poem by Mary Barber
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Hymn 127

Christ's invitation to sinners, or, Humility and pride.

Mt. 11:28-30.

"Come hither, all ye weary souls,
Ye heavy-laden sinners, come;
I'll give you rest from all your toils,
And raise you to my heav'nly home.

"They shall find rest that learn of me;
I'm of a meek and lowly mind;
But passion rages like the sea,
And pride is restless as the wind.

"Blest is the man whose shoulders take
My yoke, and bear it with delight;
My yoke is easy to his neck
My grace shall make the burden light."

Jesus, we come at thy command;
With faith, and hope, and humble zeal,
Resign our spirits to thy hand
To mold and guide us at thy will.

poem by Isaac Watts
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To Captain H------D, Of The 65th Regiment

SAY, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warrior's bosom in the fields of fight?
Lo! here the christian and the hero join
With mutual grace to form the man divine.
In H-----D see with pleasure and surprise,
Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies:
Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame,
And add new glories to thine honour'd name,
Still to the field, and still to virtue true:
Britannia glories in no son like you.

poem by Phillis Wheatley
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To Mrs. Strangeways Horner, With A Letter From My Son;

O thou, with ev'ry Virtue grac'd,
Adorn'd with Wit, and Sense, and Taste;
Who, with a Goodness unconfin'd,
Delight'st in blessing human Kind,
Whose Woes so oft thy Peace destroy;
'Tis just, thou shouldst partake their Joy:
Then in my Transport deign to share;
Behold this Letter from my Heir:
There see the Picture of a Mind,
In Duty, as in Arts, refin'd;
Who, in full Triumph, could submit
His Trophies at his Parent's Feet.
So he, in Roman Story fam'd,
Who from Corioli was nam'd,
With Joy engag'd in glorious Toils,
To glad his Mother with the Spoils:
Her Son, by Roman Arms, o'ercame;
By Roman Arts, mine soars to Fame.

Methinks, I see your Friendship rise,
And sparkle in your lovely Eyes.
Your Heir! (I hear you now repeat)
I long to know of your Estate.
Say--Is it an Hibernian Bog,
Where Phoebus seldom shines for Fog?

HORTENSIA, there he sometimes shines;
But oft'ner hides his Head, and pines,
On happier Climes to look, nor see
Such dismal Scenes of Poverty;
Nor see an Isle, by Nature bless'd,
By ill--judg'd Policy oppress'd;
Her Trade usurp'd by foreign Lands,
Whilst Albion fast ties up her Hands:
Nor see her Sons in Science skill'd,
And yet her Posts by Strangers fill'd.

But, since of my Estate you ask,
The Answer is no easy Task,
Criticks, not Lawyers, are to show,
Whether my Title's good, or no.
Ovid has long ago defin'd,
What Lands are to the Muse assign'd:
'Tis but a barren Soil, 'tis true,
Not such as Heav'n bestow'd on You;
(Yet, Miser--like, our Lands you seize,
And win, but will not wear, the Bays
A steep, a slipp'ry, dang'rous Hill,
Which we, alas! are climbing still;
Still think there's better Land up higher,
Which all would gain, but few acquire.
If low or beaten Paths we trace,
We're deem'd an abject, grov'ling Race:
And oft, when we attempt to soar,
We miss our Aim, and fall the lower:
Tho' some by magic Numbers found
The Art to gain the highest Ground;
Yet most of those, alas! we know,
Had Cause to wish they'd stay'd below;
Rather than be exalted there,
To starve in pure poetic Air;
Whilst tasteless Wights, in Valleys fed,
Despise the Wits in Want of Bread.

Yet sometimes we in Story find
An Instance of a noble Mind,
That made Apollo's Shrine its Care,
And bless'd the Tribe that worshipp'd there.
High in the deathless Lists of Fame,
Revere the godlike Sidney's Name:
There Dorset, and Southampton, view;
And there the Poets Montagu.
Eliza paid her Spencer's Toil
With Acres of Hibernian Soil:
And now illustrious Caroline
Resolves to raise the drooping Nine;
With Pleasure saw the lab'ring Hind
Studious to cultivate his Mind;
And deign'd to smile on rural Lines,
Where so much native Beauty shines.

HORTENSIA, I revere your Friend:
May Blessings on her Head descend,
Who made a Peasant's Merit known,
And plac'd the Poor before the Throne:
Thus imitates the Pow'r Divine,
And proves her Soul ally'd to thine.

poem by Mary Barber
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A poem, Sacred to the Glorious memory of King George

Let gaudy Mirth, to the blithe Carrol-song,
In loose light-measur'd Numbers dance along;
Thou, Muse no flow'ry Fancies here display,
Nor warble with the chearful Lark thy Lay.
In the dark Cypress Grove, or moss-grown Cell,
Where dreary Ravens haunt, would Sorrow dwell!
Where Ghosts, that shun the Day, come sweeping by,
Or fix in melancholy Frenzy's Eye;
Yet now she turns her Flight to Scenes of State,
Where Wealth and Grandeur weep the Frowns of Fate!
Wealth, Want, Rank, Power, here each alike partakes,
As the Shrub bends, the lofty Cedar shakes;
To her wide View is no Contraction known,
Tis Youth, 'tis Age, the Cottage and the Throne.

O Exclamation! lend thy sad Relief!
O Dodington! indulge the righteous Grief!
Distant, I've long beheld, in Thee, transcend
The Poet, Patron, Patriot, and the Friend.
Thou, who must live in Truth's remotest Page,
Form'd to delight, and dignify an Age;
Whose Words, whose Manners, and whose Mind declare,
Each Grace, each Moral, and each Muse are there;
Accept this Po'esy, void of venal Aim,
Made sacred by thy Royal Master's Name.

But why, O Muse! are songful Hours thy Choice?
Lost is the Life, whose Glory lifts thy Voice!
George is no more! As at the doomful sound
Of the last Trump, all Nature feels the Wound!
Each private, each distinguish'd Virtue bleeds!
And what but Lamentation long succeeds?
Where wilt thou then for apt Allusions fly?
What Eloquence can throbbing Grief supply?

Late, golden Pleasures urg'd their shining Way,
With George they flourish'd, and with George decay!
Now dusky Woes, o'er varied Scenes extend,
Groans rise! Rocks echo! and chill Damps descend!
Grief strikes my View with ever-weeping Eyes,
At her wan Look, each lively Fancy dies.
In fear, in hope, dull rest, or rufling Storms,
Thus Woe besets us, tho in various Forms!
That dire Event of Youth's ungovern'd Rage!
That dear-bought Knowledge to declining Age!
In Want, in Scorn, it haunts an humble State,
Tis Care, 'tis Envy, to perplex the Great!
A Kingdom's Curse, it in Dissention brings;
Or heavier falls, when falls the best of Kings!
Worth it exalts, when aiming to debase;
Tis Virtue's Triumph, or 'tis Guilt's Disgrace!
It humbles Life, yet dignifies our End;
Reflection's Torment, yet Reflection's Friend!
Then let the Muse her meaning Notes resume,
And pay due Sorrows to the hallow'd Tomb.

Was there a Glory, yet to Greatness known,
That not in Brunswick's Soul superiour shone?
Ill fare the Man, who, rob'd in purple Pride,
To wounded Worth has no Relief apply'd!
Benevolence makes Pow'r to Prudence dear,
When Pity weeps, what Pearl excells the Tear?
When not one Virtue glows to bless Mankind,
When Pride's cold Influence petrifies the Mind;
Let the Prince blaze with Jems!-in Wisdom's View,
An Emblem of the Rock, where once they grew!
Yet Springs gush out, to prove ev'n Rocks can flow
In Rills refreshful to the Vales below.
Why has he pow'r, and why no heart to chear,
Unseeing Eyes, and Ears that will not hear?
Swift, as his Bliss, shall his light Name decay,
Who, self-indulgent, sports his Hours away!
But, Oh!-what Love, what Honour shall he claim,
Whose Joy is Bounty, and whose Gift is Fame?
He (truly Great!) his useful Pow'r refines,
By him discover'd Worth exalted shines;
Exalted Worth, th'enlivening Act, repeats,
And draws new Virtues from obscure Retreats;
He, as the first, creative Influence, prais'd,
Smiles o'er the Beings, which his Bounty rais'd.
Such Dodington, thy Royal Master shin'd,
Such Thou, the Image of thy Monarch's Mind.

Nations were ballanc'd by his guardian Skill,
Like the pois'd Planets by the all-powerful Will.
Mark the Swede succour'd! mark th'aspiring CZAR!
Check'd are his Hopes, and shun'd the naval War.
By George the Austrian Eagle learns to tower,
While the proud Turk shakes conscious of her Power;
But when her Menace braves our envied Shore,
She trembles at the British Lyon's Roar;
Trembles, tho' aided by the Force of Spain,
And India's Wealth!-'gainst Brunswick, All how vain?
He bad thy Honour, Albion, foremost shine!
His was the Care, unmeasur'd Bliss was Thine!
Yet oft against his Virtue Faction rose!
An Angel, if thy Monarch, would have Foes.

Come Charity, First-born of Virtue's Line!
Come meek-ey'd Mercy from the Seat divine!
Pure Temp'rance, Mistriss of a tranquil Mind,
By whom each sensual Passion stands confin'd!
Fix'd Fortitude, from whom fierce Peril flies!
By whom (O Soul of Action!) Empires rise!
Fair Justice, Author of a Godlike Reign!
Peace, Plenty, Liberty adorn thy Train!
Lov'd Prudence! Queen of Virtues! blissful Dame!
Parent, and Guide of each illustrious Aim!
From whose firm Step Confusion turns in Flight,
That shapeless Spawn of Anarchy and Night!
From whom kind Harmony deduc'd her Race,
Then Order, all in one united Grace!
And thou Religion! truest, heav'nly Friend!
Whom these alone establish, These defend!
Assemble to the wailing Muse's call!
Weep o'er the clay-cold Breast, that held you All!

O Death, rouze all those Terrors to thy Aid,
Weak Fear, or wisest Valour wou'd evade!
Whether foul Pestilence in dire Array,
Red War, or pale-ey'd Famine point your Way,
What can you more than Kingdoms overthrow?
What aim'd you less, when Brunswick felt the Blow?
But mark!-Augustus, still above thy Rage,
Steps forth to give a second Golden Age.

Ye great Plantagenets! distinguish'd Race!
One greater meets you on celestial Space.
And thou, Nassau the fairest noblest Name!
Ev'n mid the Blest, superior still thy Flame!
Behold an Equal now!-How dear th'Embrace!
Oh, fly!-present him at the Throne of Grace!
'Tis done!-He's crown'd with a resplendent Joy,
Which Care shall never dim, nor Time destroy.

See!-from yon golden Cloud, amidst a Band
Of Angel-Pow'rs, once Patriots of the Land,
Soft-leaning o'er Britania's weeping Isle,
And shedding sweet, a fond, paternal Smile;
Pointing, the visionary Seraph cries,
Suspend thy Tears!-Behold a Sov'reign rise,
Thy Second George! whose Reign shall soon disclose
All that mine gave, and Heav'n, in Grace bestows.

He said.-Again, with Majesty refin'd,
Up-wing'd to Realms of Bliss, th'Ætherial Mind.

Finis

poem by Richard Savage
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A True Tale

A mother, who vast Pleasure finds
In modelling her Childrens Minds;
With whom, in exquisite Delight,
She passes many a Winter Night;
Mingles in ev'ry Play, to find
What Byass Nature gave the Mind;
Resolving thence to take her Aim,
To guide them to the Realms of Fame;
And wisely make those Realms their Way
To Regions of eternal Day;
Each boist'rous Passion to controul,
And early humanize the Soul;
In simple Tales, beside the Fire,
The noblest Notions would inspire:
Her Children, conscious of her Care,
Transported, hung around her Chair.

Of Scripture--Heroes she would tell,
Whose Names they lisp'd, ere they could spell:
The Mother then, delighted, smiles;
And shews the Story on the Tiles.

At other Times, her Themes would be
The Sages of Antiquity;
Who left immortal Names behind,
By proving Blessings to their Kind.
Again, she takes another Scope,
And tells of Addison, and Pope.

Studious to let her Children know
The various Turns of Things below;--
How Virtue here was oft oppress'd,
To shine more glorious with the Bless'd;
Told Tully's and the Gracchi's Doom,
The Patriots, and the Pride of Rome.
Then bless'd the Drapier's happier Fate,
Who sav'd, and lives to guard the State.

Some Comedies gave great Delight,
And entertain'd them many a Night:
Others could no Admittance find,
Forbid, as Poison to the Mind:
Those Authors Wit and Sense, said she,
But heighten their Impiety.

This happy Mother met, one Day,
The Book of Fables, writ by Gay;
And told her Children, Here's a Treasure,
A Fund of Wisdom, and of Pleasure!
Such Morals, and so finely writ;
Such Decency, good Sense, and Wit!
Well has the Poet found the Art,
To raise the Mind, and mend the Heart.

Her fav'rite Son the Volume seiz'd;
And, as he read, seem'd highly pleas'd;
Made such Reflections ev'ry Page;
The Mother thought above his Age;
Delighted read, but scarce was able
To finish the concluding Fable.

What ails my Child? the Mother cries:
Whose Sorrows now have fill'd your Eyes?
O dear Mamma, can he want Friends,
Who writes for such exalted Ends?
O base, degen'rate human Kind!
Had I a Fortune to my Mind,
Should Gay complain? But now, alas!
Thro' what a World am I to pass?
Where Friendship is an empty Name,
And Merit scarcely paid in Fame?

Resolv'd to lull his Woes to Rest,
She tells him, He should hope the best:
This has been yet Gay's Case, I own;
But now his Merit's amply known.
Content that tender Heart of thine:
He'll be the Care of Caroline.
Who thus instructs the royal Race,
Must have a Pension, or a Place.

Mamma, if you were Queen, says he,
And such a Book were writ for me,
I find 'tis so much to your Taste,
That Gay would keep his Coach at least.

My Son, what you suppose, is true:
I see its Excellence in you.
Poets who write to mend the Mind,
A royal Recompence should find.
But I am barr'd by Fortune's Frowns,
From the best Privilege of Crowns;
The glorious, godlike Pow'r to bless,
And raise up Merit in Distress.

But, dear Mamma, I long to know,
Were you the Queen, what you'd bestow.

What I'd bestow, says she, my Dear?
At least, a thousand Pounds a Year.

poem by Mary Barber
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To The Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory, On Reading His Sermons On Daily Devotion, In Which that Duty Is Recommended And Assisted

TO cultivate in ev'ry noble mind
Habitual grace, and sentiments refin'd,
Thus while you strive to mend the human heart,
Thus while the heav'nly precepts you impart,
O may each bosom catch the sacred fire,
And youthful minds to Virtue's throne aspire!
When God's eternal ways you set in sight,
And Virtue shines in all her native light,
In vain would Vice her works in night conceal,
For Wisdom's eye pervades the sable veil.
Artists may paint the sun's effulgent rays,
But Amory's pen the brighter God displays:
While his great works in Amory's pages shine,
And while he proves his essence all divine,
The Atheist sure no more can boast aloud
Of chance, or nature, and exclude the God;
As if the clay without the potter's aid
Should rise in various forms, and shapes self-made,
Or worlds above with orb o'er orb profound
Self-mov'd could run the everlasting round.
It cannot be--unerring Wisdom guides
With eye propitious, and o'er all presides.
Still prosper, Amory! still may'st thou receive
The warmest blessings which a muse can give,
And when this transitory state is o'er,
When kingdoms fall, and fleeting Fame's no more,
May Amory triumph in immortal fame,
A nobler title, and superior name!

poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Be Homely, Though Not Comely

A heroine in celluloid is shown in pomp.
Quick in action, she is snazzy and spicy.
A heroine in a television is shown as homely.
The latter moves our heart and feeds our eyes.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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On The Consequences Of Happy Marriages

Hail happy pair from whom such raptures rise,
On whom I gaze with pleasure and surprize;
From thy bright rays the gloom of strife is driven,
For all the smiles of mutual love are Heaven.

Thrice happy pair! no earthly joys excel
Thy peaceful state; there constant pleasures dwell,
Which cheer the mind and elevate the soul,
Whilst discord sinks beneath their soft control.

The blaze of zeal extends from breast to breast,
While Heaven supplies each innocent request;
And lo! what fond regard their smiles reveal,
Attractive as the magnet to the steel.

Their peaceful life is all content and ease,
They with delight each other strive to please;
Each other's charms, they only can admire,
Whose bosoms burn with pure connubial fire.

Th' indelible vestige of unblemished love,
Must hence a guide to generations prove:
Though virtuous partners moulder in the tomb,
Their light may shine on ages yet to come.

With grateful tears their well-spent day shall close,
When death like evening calls them to repose;
Then mystic smiles may break from deep disguise,
Like Vesper's torch transpiring in the skies.

Like constellations still their works may shine,
In virtue's unextinguished blaze divine;
Happy are they whose race shall end the same--
Sweeter than odours is a virtuous name.

Such is the transcript of unfading grace,
[illegible] eflecting lustre on a future race.
[illegible] virtuous on this line delight to tread,
[illegible] magnify the honors of the dead--

Who like a Phoenix did not burn in vain,
Incinerated to revive again;
From whose exalted urn young love shall rise,
Exulting from a funeral sacrifice.

poem by George Moses Horton
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Psalm 45 part 1

The glory of Christ, and power of his gospel.

Now be my heart inspired to sing
The glories of my Savior King,
Jesus the Lord; how heav'nly fair
His form! how bright his beauties are!

O'er all the sons of human race
He shines with a superior grace;
Love from his lips divinely flows,
And blessings all his state compose.

Dress thee in arms, most mighty Lord,
Gird on the terror of thy sword,
In majesty and glory ride,
With truth and meekness at thy side.

Thine anger, like a pointed dart,
Shall pierce the foes of stubborn heart;
Or words of mercy, kind and sweet,
Shall melt the rebels at thy feet.

Thy throne, O God, for ever stands,
Grace is the sceptre in thy hands;
Thy laws and works are just and right,
Justice and grace are thy delight.

God, thine own God, has richly shed
His oil of gladness on thy head,
And with his sacred Spirit blest
His first-born Son above the rest.

poem by Isaac Watts
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The Heroine

The heroine stood up on the deck
The ship was out of control
The bow was being ripped to shreds
Men were fighting down below
The sea had pummeled the boat for so long
That they knew nothing but fear
And the babys in the box
He thinks the door is locked
The sea is in a state
The baby learns to wait for the heroine
Ohh, ohh, for the heroine
Locked in his defense, he waits for the heroine
The mast is cracking as he waves are slapping
Sailors roll across the deck
And when they thought none was looking
They would cut a weaker mans neck
While the heroine dressed in a virgin white dress
Tried to steer the mighty ship
But the raging storm wouldnt hear of it
They were in for a long trip
Babys in the box
He thinks the door is locked
He finds it hard to breathe
Drawing in the sea
And wheres the heroine to fire off the gun
To calm the raging seas
And let herself be seized, by the -
- baby in the box
The thinks the door is locked
The woman has the keys
But there is no moment she can seize
Heres to the heroine
Who transcends all the men
Who are locked inside the box
Will the lady let them out
Ohh, the heroine, ooohh, ooohhh, the heroine
Strapped to the mast, the pale ascendant heroine
Strapped to the mast, the pale ascendant heroine

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet XXV: The Wisest Scholar

The wisest scholar of the wight most wise
By Phoebus' doom, with sugar'd sentence says,
That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes,
Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise;

But for that man with pain his truth descries,
Whiles he each thing in sense's balance weighs,
And so nor will, nor can behold those skies
Which inward sun to heroic mind displays,

Virtue of late with virtuous care to stir
Love of herself, took Stella's shape, that she
To mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her.

It is most true, for since I her did see,
Virtue's great beauty in that face I prove,
And find th'effect, for I do burn in love.

poem by Philip Sidney
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To His Grace The Duke Of Chandos.

Were Princes grac'd with Souls like thine,
Princes had still been deem'd divine.
Such Merit as we find in thee,
First introduc'd Idolatry;
When an excelling Form and Mind,
Delighting, had misled Mankind;
Inspiring with an awful Sense
Of infinite Beneficence.

Were Kings elective, Realms would sue,
Contending to be sway'd by you.
Yet, tho' no regal Throne is thine,
Thou hast no Reason to repine;
Since Heav'n, that gave the Monarch's Heart,
Bestow'd thee far the nobler Part.

poem by Mary Barber
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ode V: On Love Of Praise

I.
Of all the springs within the mind
Which prompt her steps in fortune's maze,
From none more pleasing aid we find
Than from the genuine love of praise.

II.
Nor any partial, private end
Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any passion, virtue's friend,
So like to virtue's self appears.

III.
For who in glory can delight
Without delight in glorious deeds?
What man a charming voice can slight,
Who courts the echo that succeeds?

IV.
But not the echo on the voice
More, than on virtue praise, depends;
To which, of course, it's real price
The judgment of the praiser lends.

V.
If praise then with religious awe
From the sole perfect judge be sought,
A nobler aim, a purer law
Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.

VI.
With which in character the same
Tho' in an humbler sphere it lies,
I count that soul of human fame,
The suffrage of the good and wise.

poem by Mark Akenside
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Delight

Anytime that you fall asleep
I'm wide awake
Anytime that you leave your house
I'm waiting at the gate
I'm not angry anymore
Come on and show your soul
I'd love to hang it on the wall
Framed for me
Anytime that you smile
I know that's really you
Anytime that you laugh you know that
I'll be laughing too
But it's not funny anymore
Come on now where's your soul
Is that it crumpled on the floor
Is this blame on me
Delight Delight Delight Delight
Delight at least we know its name
Delight Delight Delight
Wouldn't it be nice to feel again
Delight Delight Delight
It's locked outside it won't be coming in
Anytime now you'll talk at least I hope you will
Anytime now you'll speak and you know
I'll be listening still
But we don't say much anymore
Come on tell it from your soul
Delight Delight Delight Delight
Delight at least we know its name
Delight Delight Delight
Wouldn't it be nice to feel again
Delight Delight Delight
It's locked outside it won't be coming in
Won't be coming in
Delight Delight

song performed by by Bic Runga from Drive
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Psalm 84

v.1-4,10, paraphrased
C. M.
Delight in ordinances of worship; or, God present in his churches.

My soul, how lovely is the place
To which thy God resorts!
'Tis heav'n to see his smiling face,
Though in his earthly courts.

There the great Monarch of the skies
His saving power displays,
And light breaks in upon our eyes
With kind and quick'ning rays.

With his rich gifts the heav'nly Dove
Descends and fills the place,
While Christ reveals his wondrous love,
And sheds abroad his grace.

There, mighty God, thy words declare
The secrets of thy will;
And still we seek thy mercy there,
And sing thy praises still.

PAUSE.

My heart and flesh cry out for thee,
While far from thine abode;
When shall I tread thy courts, and see
My Savior and my God?

The sparrow builds herself a nest,
And suffers no remove;
O make me, like the sparrows, blest,
To dwell but where I love.

To sit one day beneath thine eye,
And hear thy gracious voice,
Exceeds a whole eternity
Employed in carnal joys.

Lord, at thy threshold I would wait
While Jesus is within,
Rather than fill a throne of state,
Or live in tents of sin.

Could I command the spacious land,
And the more boundless sea,
For one blest hour at thy right hand
I'd give them both away.

poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To The Right Honble. The Lady Dowager Torrington,

When you command, the Muse obeys,
Proud to present her humble Lays.
Of writing I'll no more repent,
Nor think my Time unwisely spent;
If Verse the Happiness procures
Of pleasing such a Soul as yours.

Endless Anxiety, I find,
Hath dire Effects upon the Mind:
A Life of unsuccessful Care
Too often sinks us to Despair.
From such a Life as this, I chuse
To snatch some Moments for the Muse;
To slight Mortality, and soar
To Worlds where Anguish is no more;
Forget Ierne's wretched State,
Tho' doom'd to share her cruel Fate;
Destin'd to pass my joyless Days,
Where Poverty, relentless, preys;
And form'd, unhappily, to grieve
For Miseries I can't relieve.

From giving Wealth my Hands are ty'd;
That great Felicity's deny'd.
Yet have I sometimes the Delight,
To help a Wretch by what I write;
To make some happier Bosoms melt;
And heal the Woes they never felt.

To Torrington, whose gen'rous Breast
Delights in raising the Diftress'd,
Adding new Honour to her Blood,
By all the Ways of doing Good,
How needless is the Poet's Art;
Since He, that made, enlarg'd her Heart?

poem by Mary Barber
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Image, not the real, does the trick.

To get aroused you should bring
To your brain an image of a heroine.
Otherwise there is no arousal
Even when in act with a corporal.
Your partner having lost lustre,
Mere image in brain of your heroine
Can give you what your spouse fails to.
Couples fight their monotony
By fantasizing other than their partner.
29.05.2001, Berhampur

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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