Sonnet to Ingratitude
He that's ungrateful, has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
- YOUNG.
I COULD have borne affliction's sharpest thorn;
The sting of malicepoverty's deep wound;
The sneers of vulgar pride, the idiot's scorn;
Neglected Love, false Friendship's treach'rous sound;
I could, with patient smile, extract the dart
Base calumny had planted in my heart;
The fangs of envy; agonizing pain;
ALL, ALL, nor should my steady soul complain:
E'en had relentless FATE, with cruel pow'r,
Darken'd the sunshine of each youthful day;
While from my path she snatch'd each transient flow'r.
Not one soft sigh my sorrow should betray;
But where INGRATITUDE'S fell poisons pour,
HOPE shrinks subduedand LIFE'S BEST JOYS DECAY.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Stanzas to a Friend
AH! think no more that Life's delusive joys,
Can charm my thoughts from FRIENDSHIP'S dearer claim;
Or wound a heart, that scarce a wish employs,
For age to censure, or discretion blame.
Tir'd of the world, my weary mind recoils
From splendid scenes, and transitory joys;
From fell Ambition's false and fruitless toils,
From hope that flatters, and from bliss that cloys.
With THEE, above the taunts of empty pride,
The rigid frowns to youthful error given;
Content in solitude my griefs I'll hide,
Thy voice my counsellorthy smiles my Heaven.
With thee I'll hail the morn's returning ray,
Or climb the dewy mountain bleak and cold;
On the smooth lake observe the sun-beams play,
Or mark the infant flow'rs their buds unfold.
Pleas'd will I watch the glitt'ring queen of Night
Spread her white mantle o'er the face of Heaven;
And from thy converse snatch the pure delight,
By truth sublime to MENTAL feeling given.
And as the varying seasons glide away,
This moral lesson shall my bosom learn,
How TIME steals on, while blissful hours decay
Like fleeting shadows;NEVER to return.
And when I see thy warm unspotted mind,
Torn with the wound of broken FRIENDSHIP'S dart;
When sickness chills thy breast with pangs unkind,
Or ruthless sorrow preys upon thy heart;
The task be MINE to soothe thee to repose,
To check the sigh, and wipe the trickling tear,
Or with soft SYMPATHY to share thy woes;
O, proudest rapture of the soul sincere !
And ye who flutter thro' the vacant hour,
Where tasteless Apathy's empoison'd wand
Arrests the vagrant sense with numbing pow'r,
While vanquish'd REASON bows at her command.
O say, what bliss can transient Life bestow,
What balm so grateful to the social mind,
As FRIENDSHIP'S voicewhere gentle precepts flow
From the blest source of sentiment refin'd?
When FATE'S stern hand shall close my weeping eye,
And seal, at length, my wand'ring spirit's doom;
Oh! may kind FRIENDSHIP catch my parting sigh,
And cheer with HOPE the terrors of the TOMB.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Ode to Eloquence
HAIL! GODDESS of persuasive art!
The magic of whose tuneful tongue
Lulls to soft harmony the wand'ring heart
With fascinating song;
O, let me hear thy heav'n-taught strain,
As thro' my quiv'ring pulses steal
The mingling throbs of joy and pain,
Which only sensate minds can feel;
Ah ! let me taste the bliss supreme,
Which thy warm touch unerring flings
O'er the rapt sense's finest strings,
When GENIUS, darting frown the sky,
Glances across my wond'ring eye,
Her animating beam.
SWEET ELOQUENCE! thy mild controul,
Awakes to REASON's dawn, the IDIOT soul;
When mists absorb the MENTAL sight,
'Tis thine, to dart CREATIVE LIGHT;
'Tis thine, to chase the filmy clouds away,
And o'er the mind's deep bloom, spread a refulgent ray.
Nor is thy wond'rous art confin'd,
Within the bounds of MENTAL space,
For thou canst boast exterior grace,
Bright emblem of the fertile mind;
Yes; I have seen thee, with persuasion meek,
Bathe in the lucid tear, on Beauty's cheek,
Have mark'd thee in the downcast eye,
When suff'ring Virtue claim'd the pitying sigh.
Oft, by thy thrilling voice subdued,
The meagre fiend INGRATITUDE
Her treach'rous fang conceals;
Pale ENVY hides her forked sting;
And CALUMNY, beneath the wing
Of dark oblivion steals.
Before thy pure and lambent fire
Shall frozen Apathy expire;
Thy influence warm and unconfin'd,
Shall rapt'rous transports give,
And in the base and torpid mind,
Shall bid the fine Affections live;
When JEALOUSY's malignant dart,
Strikes at the fondly throbbing heart;
When fancied woes, on every side assail,
Thy honey'd accents shall prevail;
When burning Passion withers up the brain,
And the fix'd lids, the glowing drops sustain,
Touch'd by thy voice, the melting eye
Shall pour the balm of yielding SYMPATHY.
'Tis thine, with lenient Song to move
The dumb despair of hopeless LOVE;
Or when the animated soul
On Fancy's wing shall soar,
And scorning Reason's soft controul,
Untrodden paths explore;
'Till by distracting conflicts tost,
The intellectual source is lost:
E'en then, the witching music of thy tongue
Stealing thro' Mis'ry's DARKEST GLOOM,
Weaves the fine threads of FANCY's loom,
'Till every slacken'd nerve new strung,
Bids renovated NATURE shine,
Amidst the fost'ring beams of ELOQUENCE DIVINE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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From Love to Friendship
If you would have me love once more,
The blissful age of love restore;
From wine's free joys, and lovers' cares,
Relentless time, who no man spares,
Urges me quickly to retire,
And no more to such bliss aspire.
From such austerity exact,
Let's, if we can, some good extract;
Whose way of thinking with this age
Suits not, can ne'er be deemed a sage.
Let sprightly youth its follies gay,
Its follies amiable display;
Life to two moments is confined,
Let one to wisdom be consigned.
You sweet delusions of my mind,
Still to my ruling passion kind,
Which always brought a sure relief
To life's accurst companion, grief.
Will you forever from me fly,
And must I joyless, friendless die?
No mortal e'er resigns his breath
I see, without a double death;
Who loves, and is beloved no more,
His hapless fate may well deplore;
Life's loss may easily be borne,
Of love bereft man is forlorn.
'Twas thus those pleasures I lamented,
Which I so oft in youth repented;
My soul replete with soft desire,
Vainly regretted youthful fire.
But friendship then, celestial maid,
From heaven descended to my aid;
Less lively than the amorous flame,
Although her tenderness the same.
The charms of friendship I admired,
My soul was with new beauty fired;
I then made one in friendship's train,
But destitute of love, complain.
Ode to the Nightingale
SWEET BIRD OF SORROW! why complain
In such soft melody of Song,
That ECHO, am'rous of thy Strain,
The ling'ring cadence doth prolong?
Ah! tell me, tell me, why,
Thy dulcet Notes ascend the sky.
Or on the filmy vapours glide
Along the misty moutain's side?
And wherefore dost Thou love to dwell,
In the dark wood and moss-grown cell,
Beside the willow-margin'd stream
Why dost Thou court wan Cynthia's beam?
Sweet Songstressif thy wayward fate
Hath robb'd Thee of thy bosom's mate,
Oh, think not thy heart-piercing moan
Evap'rates on the breezy air,
Or that the plaintive Song of Care
Steals from THY Widow'd Breast alone.
Oft have I heard thy mournful Tale,
On the high Cliff, that o'er the Vale
Hangs its dark brow, whose awful shade
Spreads a deep gloom along the glade:
Led by its sound, I've wander'd far,
Till crimson evening's flaming Star
On Heav'n's vast dome refulgent hung,
And round ethereal vapours flung;
And oft I've sought th'HYGEIAN MAID,
In rosy dimply smiles array'd,
Till forc'd with every HOPE to part,
Resistless Pain subdued my Heart.
Oh then, far o'er the restless deep
Forlorn my poignant pangs I bore,
Alone in foreign realms to weep,
Where ENVY's voice could taunt no more.
I hop'd, by mingling with the gay,
To snatch the veil of Grief away;
To break Affliction's pond'rous chain;
VAIN was the Hopein vain I sought
The placid hour of careless thought,
Where Fashion wing'd her light career,
And sportive Pleasure danc'd along,
Oft have I shunn'd the blithsome throng,
To hide th'involuntary tear,
For e'en where rapt'rous transports glow,
From the full Heart the conscious tear will flow,
When to my downy couch remov'd,
FANCY recall'd my wearied mind
To scenes of FRIENDSHIP left behind,
Scenes still regretted, still belov'd!
Ah, then I felt the pangs of Grief,
Grasp my warm Heart, and mock relief;
My burning lids Sleep's balm defied,
And on my fev'rish lip imperfect murmurs died.
Restless and sadI sought once more
A calm retreat on BRITAIN's shore;
Deceitful HOPE, e'en there I found
That soothing FRIENDSHIP's specious name
Was but a short-liv'd empty sound,
And LOVE a false delusive flame.
Then come, Sweet BIRD, and with thy strain,
Steal from my breast the thorn of pain;
Blest solace of my lonely hours,
In craggy caves and silent bow'rs,
When HAPPY Mortals seek repose,
By Night's pale lamp we'll chaunt our woes,
And, as her chilling tears diffuse
O'er the white thorn their silv'ry dews,
I'll with the lucid boughts entwine
A weeping Wreath, which round my Head
Shall by the waning Cresent shine,
And light us to our leafy bed,
But ah! nor leafy beds nor bow'rs
Fring'd with soft MAY's enamell'd flow'rs,
Nor pearly leaves, nor Cynthia's beams,
Nor smiling Pleasure's shad'wy dreams,
Sweet BIRD, not e'en THY melting Strains
Can calm the Heart, where TYRANT SORROW REIGNS.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Monody to the Memory of Chatterton
Chill penury repress'd his noble rage,
And froze the genial current of his soul.
GRAY.
IF GRIEF can deprecate the wrath of Heaven,
Or human frailty hope to be forgiven !
Ere now thy sainted spirit bends its way
To the bland regions of celestial day;
Ere now, thy soul, immers'd in purest air
Smiles at the triumphs of supreme Despair;
Or bath'd in seas of endless bliss, disdains
The vengeful memory of mortal pains;
Yet shall the MUSE a fond memorial give
To shield thy name, and bid thy GENIUS live.
Too proud for pity, and too poor for praise,
No voice to cherish, and no hand to raise;
Torn, stung, and sated, with this "mortal coil,"
This weary, anxious scene of fruitless toil;
Not all the graces that to youth belong,
Nor all the energies of sacred song;
Nor all that FANCY, all that GENIUS gave,
Could snatch thy wounded spirit from the grave.
Hard was thy lot, from every comfort torn;
In POVERTY'S cold arms condemn'd to mourn;
To live by mental toil, e'en when the brain
Could scarce its trembling faculties sustain;
To mark the dreary minutes slowly creep:
Each day to labour, and each night to weep;
'Till the last murmur of thy frantic soul,
In proud concealment from its mansion stole,
While ENVY springing from her lurid cave,
Snatch'd the young LAURELS from thy rugged grave.
So the pale primrose, sweetest bud of May,
Scarce wakes to beauty, ere it feels decay;
While baleful weeds their hidden n poisons pour,
Choke the green sod, and wither every flow'r.
Immur'd in shades, from busy scenes remov'd;
No sound to solace,but the verse he lov'd:
No soothing numbers harmoniz'd his ear;
No feeling bosom gave his griefs a tear;
Obscurely bornno gen'rous friend he found
To lead his trembling steps o'er classic ground.
No patron fill'd his heart with flatt'ring hope,
No tutor'd lesson gave his genius scope;
Yet, while poetic ardour nerv'd each thought,
And REASON sanction'd what AMBITION taught;
He soar'd beyond the narrow spells that bind
The slow perceptions of the vulgar mind;
The fire once kindled by the breath of FAME,
Her restless pinions fann'd the glitt'ring flame;
Warm'd by its rays, he thought each vision just;
For conscious VIRTUE seldom feels DISTRUST.
Frail are the charms delusive FANCY shows,
And short the bliss her fickle smile bestows;
Yet the bright prospect pleas'd his dazzled view,
Each HOPE seem'd ripened, and each PHANTOM true;
Fill'd with delight, his unsuspecting mind
Weigh'd not the grov'ling treach'ries of mankind;
For while a niggard boon his Savants supply'd,
And NATURE'S claims subdued the voice of PRIDE:
His timid talents own'd a borrow'd name,
And gain'd by FICTION what was due to FAME.
With secret labour, and with taste refin'd,
This son of mis'ry form'd his infant mind !
When op'ning Reason's earliest scenes began,
The dawn of childhood mark'd the future man !
He scorn'd the puerile sports of vulgar boys,
His little heart aspir'd to nobler joys;
Creative Fancy wing'd his few short hours,
While soothing Hope adorn'd his path with flow'rs,
Yet FAME'S recording hand no trophy gave,
Save the sad TEARto decorate his grave.
Yet in this dark, mysterious scene of woe,
Conviction's flame shall shed a radiant glow;
His infant MUSE shall bind with nerves of fire
The sacrilegious hand that stabs its sire.
Methinks, I hear his wand'ring shade complain,
While mournful ECHO lingers on the strain;
Thro' the lone aisle his restless spirit calls,
His phantom glides along the minster's § walls;
Where many an hour his devious footsteps trod,
Ere Fate resign'd him TO HIS PITYING GOD.
Yet, shall the MUSE to gentlest sorrow prone
Adopt his cause, and make his griefs her own;
Ne'er shall her CHATTERTON's neglected name,
Fade in inglorious dreams of doubtful fame;
Shall he, whose pen immortal GENIUS gave,
Sleep unlamented in an unknown grave?
No, the fond MUSE shall spurn the base neglect,
The verse she cherish'd she shall still protect.
And if unpitied pangs the mind can move,
Or graceful numbers warm the heart to love;
If the fine raptures of poetic fire
Delight to vibrate on the trembling lyre;
If sorrow claims the kind embalming tear,
Or worth oppress'd, excites a pang sincere?
Some kindred soul shall pour the song divine,
And with the cypress bough the laurel twine,
Whose weeping leaves the wint'ry blast shall wave
In mournful murmurs o'er thy unbless'd grave.
And tho' no lofty VASE or sculptur'd BUST
Bends o'er the sod that hides thy sacred dust;
Tho' no long line of ancestry betrays
The PRIDE of RELATIVES, or POMP of PRAISE.
Tho' o'er thy name a blushing nation rears
OBLIVION'S wing to hide REFLECTION'S tears!
Still shall thy verse in dazzling lustre live,
And claim a brighter wreath THAN WEALTH CAN GIVE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Elegy to the Memory of Richard Boyle, Esq.
NEAR yon bleak mountain's dizzy height,
That hangs o'er AVON's silent wave;
By the pale Crescent's glimm'ring light,
I sought LORENZO's lonely grave.
O'er the long grass the silv'ry dew,
Soft Twilight's tears spontaneous shone;
And the dank bough of baneful yew
Supply'd the place of sculptured stone.
Oft, as my trembling steps drew near,
The aëry voice of FANCY gave
The plaint of GENIUS to mine ear,
That, lingering, murmur'd on his grave.
"Cold is that heart, where honour glow'd,
And Friendship's flame sublimely shone,
And clos'd that eye where Pity flow'd,
For ev'ry suff'ring but HIS OWN.
"That form where youth and grace conspir'd,
To captivate admiring eyes,
No more belov'd, no more admir'd,
A torpid mass neglected lies.
"Mute is the music of that tongue,
Once tuneful as the voice of love,
When ORPHEUS, by his magic song,
Taught trees, and flinty rocks to move.
"Oft shall the pensive MUSE be found,
Sprinkling with flow'rs his mould'ring clay;
While soft-eyed SORROW wand'ring round,
Shall pluck intruding weeds away."
Sad victim of the sordid mind,
That doom'd THEE to an early grave;
Ne'er shall HER breast that pity find,
Which thy forgiveness nobly gave!
Thou, who, when SORROW'S icy hand
Forbad the healthsome pulse to flow,
Obedient to HER stern command,
With meek submission bow'd thee low!
And when thy faded cheek proclaim'd
The thorn that rankled in thy breast,
Thy steady soul that pride maintain'd,
Which marks the godlike mind distress'd!
Nor was thy mental strength subdu'd,
When HOPE's last ling'ring shadows fled,
Unchang'd, thy dauntless spirit view'd
The dreary confines of the dead!
And when thy penetrating mind,
Life's thorny maze presum'd to scan,
In ev'ry path condemn'd to find
"The low ingratitude of man."
Indignant would'st thou turn away,
And smiling raise thy languid eye,
And oft thy feeble voice would say,
"TO ME 'TIS HAPPINESS TO DIE."
And tho' thy FRIEND, I with skilful art,
To heal thy woes, each balm apply'd;
Tho' the fine feelings of his heart,
Nor cost nor studious care deny'd!
He saw the fatal hour draw near,
He saw THEE fading to the grave;
He gave his last kind gift, A TEAR,
And mourn'd the worth he could not save.
Nor could the ruthless breath of FATE
Snatch from thy grave the tender sigh;
Nor a relentless monster's hate
Impede thy passage to the sky.
And tho' no kindred tears were shed,
No tribute to thy memory giv'n;
Sublime in death, thy spirit fled,
To seek its best reward IN HEAVEN!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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To Prudence
HENCE, Prudence! bane of ev'ry virtuous deed,
Child of Cold Prejudice and selfish Fear,
Insensible to Sorrow's bitter tear,
Wrung from the heart thou bid'st unpitied bleed!
Oh, Innocence! compell'd to seek the shade,
And pine neglected in the cheerless wild,
Defam'd by Slander, Envy's fav'rite child,
Weep on, for Prudence shuns thee, wretched maid!
Poor Honesty! bend not thy steps this way,
Caution must scrutinize thy pale, wan face,
On every guileless feature stamp disgrace,
And shuddering at thy guilt turn quick away.
Oh, Want! thou breathing image of cold death!
By all forsaken, and by all forgot,
And in a loathsome jail condemn'd to rot;
Avaunt thee!--for contagion taints thy breath.
Oh! Industry! made misery to endure,
Steeping thy hard-earn'd crust in liquid woe;
Contempt and Scorn shall heavier give the blow,
Thou must be indolent--for thou art poor.
If sad Experience e'er should steel my breast,
Show me mankind, ungen'rous, cruel base,
Ingratitude, the vice of all the race;
Then, Prudence! then I'll hail thee for my guest!
poem by Charlotte Dacre
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A Girl Like You
(featuring treach)
Im lookin for a girl like you. (well here I go)
I hope, I hope to me you wont lie to.
(well tell me more)
Im lookin for a guy like you
(treach: yeah you know me)
(I hope) I hope you feel it in your needs.
(repeat)
When I first saw you (first saw you).
Thats when I knew, I really knew,
I wanted to get close to you.
Im watchin, clockin you.
I just spend my days,
Wonderin when I will see your face,
Boy I just wanna see your face,
And hear you say....
-im lookin for a girl like you. (well here I go)
-i hope, I hope to me you wont lie to.
(well tell me more)
-im lookin for a guy like you
(treach: yeah you know me)
-(I hope) I hope you feel it in your needs.
-(repeat)
-(da,da,dah. un da da)
-(repeat)
It would not be too hard,
If you want my heart, just say you love me.
(treach: Im lovin every inch)
No one in the world could tell us apart,
Iil be your lady (treach: well can I have a pinch? )
So what you say? (treach: what do I say? )
Baby tell me whats your name
(treach you wanna play? )
Itll be ok
-im lookin for a girl like you.(well here I go)
-i hope, I hope to me you wont lie to.
(well tell me more)
-im lookin for a guy like you
(treach: yeah you know me)
-(I hope) I hope you feel it in your needs.
-(repeat)
Treach:
Oh baby I could touch ya, (da da dah)
You kiss me right (da da dah)
Be your lover, undercover,
Get a woman wit (da dahhh)
Aaliyah:
I wanna get to know, a little more about you.
And then you smile
(treach: and then what follows? )
Our love is pouring down
(treach: like there aint no tomorrow)
Baby can we talk
(my heart aint hollow) about us?
And then you smile
(treach: and then what follows? )
Our love is pouring down
(treach: like there aint no tomorrow)
Baby can we talk (my heart aint hollow)
About us?
-im lookin for a girl like you.
(well here I go)
-i hope, I hope to me you wont lie to.
(well tell me more)
-im lookin for a guy like you
(yeah you know me)
-(I hope) I hope you feel it in your needs.
(oh yes indeed)
(repeat)
song performed by by Aaliyah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Happy Solitude--Unhappy Men
My heart is easy, and my burden light;
I smile, though sad, when thou art in my sight:
The more my woes in secret I deplore,
I taste thy goodness, and I love thee more.
There, while a solemn stillness reigns around,
Faith, love, and hope within my soul abound;
And, while the world suppose me lost in care,
The joys of angels, unperceived, I share.
Thy creatures wrong thee, O thou sovereign good!
Thou art not loved, because not understood;
This grieves me most, that vain pursuits beguile
Ungrateful men, regardless of thy smile.
Frail beauty and false honour are adored;
While Thee they scorn, and trifle with thy Word;
Pass, unconcerned, a Saviour's sorrows by;
And hunt their ruin with a zeal to die.
poem by William Cowper
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Life
"What is this world?thy school, O misery!
"Our only lesson is to learn to suffer."
- YOUNG.
LOVE, thou sportive fickle boy,
Source of anguish, child of joy,
Ever woundingever smiling,
Soothing still, and still beguiling;
What are all thy boasted treasures,
Tender sorrows, transient pleasures?
Anxious hopes, and jealous fears,
LAUGHING HOURS, and MOURNING YEARS.
What is FRIENDSHIP'S soothing name?
But a shad'wy, vap'rish flame;
Fancy's balm for ev'ry wound,
Ever sought, but rarely found;
What is BEAUTY ? but a flow'r,
Blooming, fading in an hour;
Deck'd with brightest tints at morn,
At twilight with'ring on a thorn;
Like the gentle Rose of spring,
Chill'd by ev'ry zephyr's wing,
Ah! how soon its colour flies,
Blushes, trembles, falls, and dies.
What is YOUTH ? a smiling sorrow,
Blithe to day, and sad to-morrow;
Never fix'd, for ever ranging,
Laughing, weeping, doating, changing;
Wild, capricious, giddy, vain,
Cloy'd with pleasure, nurs'd with pain;
AGE steals on with wint'ry face,
Ev'ry rapt'rous Hope to chase;
Like a wither'd, sapless tree,
Bow'd to chilling Fate's decree;
Strip'd of all its foliage gay,
Drooping at the close of day;
What of tedious Life remains?
Keen regrets and cureless pains;
Till DEATH appears, a welcome friend,
To bid the scene of sorrow end.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Sonnet -- The Tear
AH! LUST'ROUS GEM, bright emblem of the Heart,
That nobly scorns a borrow'd ray to share,
Whose gentle pow'r can break the spells of care,
And sooth, with lenient balm, the keenest smart.
Whether from holy FRIENDSHIP'S vow profan'd,
Or the dire frenzy of unpitied LOVE;
Whether from cherish'd passion unrestrain'd,
Or the worst pang the jealous mind can prove.
Yet, if sad mem'ry ling'ring o'er past woe,
Calls THEE, soft trembler, from thy crystal throne,
And sternly bids thy pearly incence flow,
E'en when the treach'rous phantom, HOPE, is flown;
How fickle are the gifts thy rays impart,
At once the BALM and POISON OF THE HEART.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Patty of the Vale
'A weedling child on lonely lea
My evening rambles chanced to see;
And much the weedling tempted me
To crop its tender flower;
Exposed to wind and heavy rain,
It's head bow'd lowly on the plain;
Hand silently it seem'd in pain
Of life's endanger'd hour.
And and wilt thou bid my bloom decay,
And crop my flower, and me betray,
And cast my injured sweets away?-
Its silence seemly sigh'd
'A moment's idol of thy mind!
And is a stranger so unkind
to leave the shameful root behind,
Bereft of all its pride?'
And so it seemly did complain;
And beating fell the heavy rain;
And low it droop'd upon the plain,
To fate resign'd to fall:
My heart did melt at its decline,
And ' Come,' said I, ' thou gem divine,
My fate shall stand the storm with thine;'
So took the root and all.'
poem by John Clare
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Sonnet I
o
THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours,
Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread,
And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers,
To weave fantastic garlands for my head:
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn'd her dear delusive art;
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship or unhappy love.
Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost,
If those paint sorrow best--who feel it most!
o
poem by Charlotte Smith
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To My Mother
IF e'er for human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e'er my heart has learn'd to know
The gen'rous wish or pray'r;
Who sow'd the germ, with tender hand?
Who mark'd its infant-leaves expand?
My mother's fost'ring care.
And if one flow'r of charms refin'd
May grace the garden of my mind;
'Twas she who nurs'd it there:
She lov'd to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish ev'ry weed and thorn,
That oft oppos'd her toil!
And, oh! if e'er I've sigh'd to claim
The palm, the living palm of fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e'er I've wish'd the glitt'ring stores,
That fortune on her fav'rite pours;
'Twas but, that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round thee, with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!
Yet not that splendor, pomp, and pow'r,
Might then irradiate ev'ry hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfin'd;
And fall, as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light,
Than all the diamond's crystal rays,
Than all the emerald's lucid blaze;
And joys of heav'n would thrill thy heart,
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!
Then, oh! may heav'n, that loves to bless,
Bestow the pow'r to cheer distress;
Make thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom'd to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with lib'ral hand dispense,
The sunshine of beneficence!
But, ah! if fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life's remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Eolian lyre,
Complains with soft, entrancing number,
When the loud storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E'en then, shall teach thee to rejoice;
E'en then, shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow's tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune's gales destroy,
The frail, mimosa-buds of hope and joy!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Only A Soldier's Grave
Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents had he - they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with tearful eye;
It's only a soldier's grave - pass by.
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high; -
Only a soldier's grave: - pass by.
Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh; -
Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave: - pass by.
Yet, we should mark it - the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.
poem by S.A. Jones
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Elegy on Mrs. Thompson
Unhappy fair, by fatal love betray'd!
Must then thy beauties thus untimely fade!
And all thy blooming, soft, inspiring charms,
Become a prey to Death's destructive arms!
Though short thy day, and transient like the wind,
How far more blest than those yet left behind!
Safe in the grave thy griefs with thee remain;
And life's tempestuous billows break in vain.
Ye tender nymphs in lawless pastimes gay,
Who heedless down the paths of pleasures stray;
Though long secure, with blissful joys elate,
Yet pause and think of Arabella's fate;
For such may be your unexpected doom,
And your next pleasures lull you in the tomb.
But let it be the muse's gentle care
To shield from envy's rage the mould'ring fair;
To draw a veil o'er faults she can't defend;
And what prudes have devour'd, leave time to end:
Be it her part to drop a pitying tear,
And mourning sigh around thy sable bier,
Nor shall thy woes long glad th'ill-natur'd crowd,
Silent to praise, and in detraction loud:
When scandal, that through life each worth destroys,
And malice that embitters all our joys,
Shall in some ill-starr'd wretch find later stains,
And let thine rest, forgot as thy remains.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hope
Hope was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!
Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;
Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Only A Soldier's Grave
Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents he had--they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with a tearful eye:
It's only a soldier's grave--pass by.
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;--
Only a soldier's grave--pass by.
Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;--
Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by.
Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.
poem by Sidney Alroy Jonas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To My Inconstant Mistress
When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crowned.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt be
Damned for thy false apostasy.
poem by Thomas Carew
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Where Is Your Faith?
I feel you drifting
Away from your dream
Something is missing
In the glow your eyes seen
I find you staring
Somewhere out the scene
Though I’m right beside you
You don’t notice me
So where is your faith?
Does it fade?
Under the shadow, cold and dark
You lost the path
So where is your heart?
Do you still have?
Chasing by regret, guilt and pride
You run your feet
I see you struggling
The cruel world facing
Sacrifice anything
Common is lying
You say it’s nothing
Only weakness showing
What happens to your soul?
What have you been?
So where is your faith?
Does it fade?
Under the shadow, cold and dark
You lost the path
So where is your heart?
Do you still have?
Chasing by regret, guilt and pride
You run your feet
I hear you crying
Inside your heart’s pain
It seems the time has stopped
The night rain approached
Even it’s hard to think
Even loneliness stings
Just don’t give up, my love
You still have me
So where is your faith?
Does it fade?
Under the shadow, cold and dark
You lost the path
So where is your heart?
Do you still have?
Chasing by regret, guilt and pride
You run your feet
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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