Sonnet XLVII: In Pride of Wit
In pride of wit when high desire of fame
Gave life and courage to my laboring pen,
And first the sound and virtue of my name
Won grace and credit in the ears of men,
With those the thronged theatres that press
I in the circuit for the laurel strove,
Where the full praise, I freely must confess,
In heat of blood a modest mind might move,
With shouts and claps at every little pause
When the proud round on every side hath rung,
Sadly I sit, unmov'd with the applause,
As though to me it nothing did belong.
No public glory vainly I pursue;
All that I seek is to eternize you.
poem by Michael Drayton
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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
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Who Hath The Courage?
Who hath courage? Not the hero
Leading in the strife,
To receive a nation's plaudits,
For his waste of life.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He alone who dares
Act up to his own convictions,
And the right declares.
Who hath courage? Not the tyrant
Boasting of his skill,
To enslave and bind his fellow
At his simple will.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that doth proclaim,
Unto all their right to freedom,
Every man the same.
Who hath courage? Not the sober,
Or untempted one,
Who hath never had his stomach
Eaten out by rum.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He who though he may
Have been using poison freely,
Throws the cup away.
Who hath courage? Not the daring,
Reckless pugilist,
Who for wager smites a brother,
With uplifted fist.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that won't resent
Every little insult given
With a base intent.
poem by Benjamin Cutler Clark
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The Wish
Would but indulgent Fortune send
To me a kind, and faithful Friend,
One who to Virtue's Laws is true,
And does her nicest Rules pursue;
One Pious, Lib'ral, Just and Brave,
And to his Passions not a Slave;
Who full of Honour, void of Pride,
Will freely praise, and freely chide;
But not indulge the smallest Fault,
Nor entertain one slighting Thought:
Who still the same will ever prove,
Will still instruct ans still will love:
In whom I safely may confide,
And with him all my Cares divide:
Who has a large capacious Mind,
Join'd with a Knowledge unconfin'd:
A Reason bright, a Judgement true,
A Wit both quick, and solid too:
Who can of all things talk with Ease,
And whose Converse will ever please:
Who charm'd with Wit, and inward Graces,
Despises Fools with tempting Faces;
And still a beauteous Mind does prize
Above the most enchanting Eyes:
I would not envy Queens their State,
Nor once desire a happier Fate.
poem by Lady Mary Chudleigh
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Hymn 35
Praise to God for creation and redemption.
Let them neglect thy glory, Lord,
Who never knew thy grace;
But our loud songs shall still record
The wonders of thy praise.
We raise our shouts, O God, to thee,
And send them to thy throne;
All glory to th' united Three,
The undivided One.
'Twas he (and we'll adore his name)
That formed us by a word;
'Tis he restores our ruined frame:
Salvation to the Lord!
Hosannah! let the earth and skies
Repeat the joyful sound
Rocks, hills, and vales, reflect the voice
In one eternal round.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Praise Your Holy Name
For all youve done -- Thank you
With my hands, I applaud the maker of creation, Holy Father
With my mouth, I extol, shouts of jubilation, Hallelujah
(You satisfy my hearts desire) With many good things,
I gotta thank ya
(You redeemed my very life) To you my heart sings
(With everything, I lift you up high)
(Let everything within praise your holy name )
With everything I,
(With everything, I lift you up high)
Lift you up Lord,Everything within me
(Let everything within praise Your holy name)
With the dance, I will praise, rejoicing in my Savior
Oh Lord, Youve been good
For Your everlasting love and unmerited favor,
Grace and mercy to me
(The Glory of Your majesty), even the skies have to display,
Yeah, yeah
(Day and night, and night and day) Youre worthy of praise
(With everything, I lift you up high)
I lift you, oh Lord I thank you, I gotta praise your Holy Name
(with everything I lift you up high)
I lift you Lord, so wonderful, I gotta, (praise your name)
Everything I do I wanna do it all for you
Let me be calm when Im there, praising your holy name
I wanna lift you up so high for the world to see
(Bridge)
I lift my hands, my hands I raise
To give You glory, to give You praise
I wanna live, so I can give all of my service unto You
Because Youre worthy Oh Lord your worthy
Oh yes, Youre worthy, worthy of the praise,
And the honor and the glory
And all majesty belongs to you.
With everything I do, everywhere I go,
I gotta tell everybody about your goodness,
About your goodness, about your goodness
Oh yeah, Yeah, youve been good, Lord,
Youve been good Lord, Youve been good Lord
You've been good Oh
Better to me, better to me, better to me than I could ever
be to myself
Youve been good Lord, thats why I thank you, thats why I praise ya
Hey
My hands are lifted, my voice is raised, to give you glory,
to give you praise
Huh, huh, praise ya,Huh, huh, praise ya
Oh I praise ya, Oh I praise ya
Oh, only you Lord, Only You Lord
Only you are worthy of the glory
You are worthy of the honor, uh, of the honor
You are worthy, worthy, worthy, worthy, worthy
I praise you, I lift ya, Magnify ya,
Because you are worthy of the praise.
song performed by by Yolanda Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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History teaches us...
A stone's throw, just, from Chelsea's football ground,
-skinhead territory long before any silverware -
there's a barber whose window decorations indicate
they're stylists in that tricky, ingrowing black hair;
I dropped in there one day; and as the one white face
in that busy, proud salon (I took the last spare seat with some relief)
spent half an hour or so as a 'minority',
as images of identity played out some tennis game of mind
across the net of what - division or harmony?
was I the face of hated white supremacy, now
the hated white minority? Covert glances on both sides...
Eventually I settled down, to then enjoy the novel ritual to me:
when you're finished, dusted down - rise from the chair,
and pause a second or two upon the barber's dais there
and face the audience; to be admired for sharp new style
which is by implication, tribute to the barber's skill;
there's palpably the sound of silent, proud applause
(I even dared, now shorn and bolder, to acquiesce, with respect,
in just a hint of this attractive ritual...) .
And here's the crowning glory of this escapade:
they charged me less than for that difficult black hair...
'History teaches us...'
...not to trust too much the lessons of history;
but rather, learn from how it's working out:
emigrate to seek a better life somewhere
where faiths and customs are so different
and you're the proud, hardworking, strange minority.
But then, beware - your children will not want
the birthmark of 'minority'; and maybe seek
some other pride than that of family,
a new identity, some wilder faith
than football's common touch, or cricket green;
the hosts and guests of history must learn
to seek to learn the lessons both must earn.
The Romans, empire-builders, had a phrase for this:
'lacrymae rerum' - which so gladly, sadly, means
the tears of things...
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet 90: Stella, Think Not That I
Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history:
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for praise in my young laurel tree:
In truth I swear, I wish not there should be
Grav'd in mine epitaph a poet's name:
Ne if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud to me thereof should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take.
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
poem by Philip Sidney
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An able, disinterested, public-spirited press, with trained intelligence to know the right and courage to do it, can preserve that public virtue without which popular government is a sham and a mockery.
quote by Joseph Pulitzer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Little Girls
Although of native maids the cream,
We're brought up on the English scheme -
The best of all
For great and small
Who modesty adore.
For English girls are good as gold,
Extremely modest (so we're told),
Demurely coy - divinely cold -
And we are that - and more.
To please papa, who argues thus -
All girls should mould themselves on us,
Because we are,
By furlongs far,
The best of all the bunch;
We show ourselves to loud applause
From ten to four without a pause -
Which is an awkward time because
It cuts into our lunch.
Oh, maids of high and low degree,
Whose social code is rather free,
Please look at us and you will see
What good young ladies ought to be!
And as we stand, like clockwork toys,
A lecturer papa employs
To puff and praise
Our modest ways
And guileless character -
Our well-known blush - our downcast eyes -
Our famous look of mild surprise
(Which competition still defies) -
Our celebrated "Sir!!!"
Then all the crowd take down our looks
In pocket memorandum books.
To diagnose,
Our modest pose
The kodaks do their best:
If evidence you would possess
Of what is maiden bashfulness,
You only need a button press -
And WE do all the rest.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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What enthralls you.......
What enthralls you to be proud?
Is that shouting more or speaking loud?
Let my words and appreciation speak
No other thoughts simply sneak
What best can make you feel?
Is that you keep moving wheel?
Does your work make chest to expand?
More and more public demand
I feel proud for not being self
Has not come without your help
As a poor, you never distanced,
Kept me near despite instanced
It was your gracious act
Was a reason clear and fact
It was not a simple tact
You always laughed and didn’t react
You did not move but remain among
Journey was hard and very very long
Never uttered a word simply to confuse
Poured energy only to infuse
Such a wonderful soul to feel proud
Whose steps make my spirit sound?
Fame and name gather round
Proud to be your friend and move around
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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On The Death Of Pushkin
He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour,
A sacrifice to slander's lust;
The haughty Poet's head, the noblest,
Bowed on his wounded breast in dust.
No longer could his free soul suffer
The vulgar world's low infamy;
He rose against the world's opinion,
And as a hero, lone fell he.
He fell! To what avail the sobbing--
The useless choir of tears and praise?
Wretched the stammering excuses!
The Fates have spoke,--no power allays!
Have ye not at all times together
His sacred genius baited sore,
The silent fury fanned to flaming,
Delighted in your work before?
O be triumphant! Earthly torment
The Poet soul did fully bear,
Extinguished are the lights inspired,
The laurel crown lies leafless there!
The murderer contemptuous gazing
Did stedfastly his weapon aim,
No swifter beat his heart, Assassin!
Nor shook his lifted hand for shame.
No wonder; from a distance came he
As an adventurer unknown,
For worthy title, star of order--
Stood but his mad desire alone.
Sneering and self-complacent mocked he
The rights and customs of our land,
He could not understand our glory,
Against which he has raised his hand.
'Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung,
The Singer even as the song he sung;
Who of a hot, heroic mood,
In death disgraceful shed his blood!'
Why did he leave his home life tranquil,
To seek the envious market place,
Where each free flame is suffocated,
Expose him to the assassin base?
The human breed, who had known better
Since earliest years of youth, than he--
Why did he trust the false pretending
Of malice and hypocrisy?
Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him,
Gave him a martyr's crown instead,
And now the cruel thorns have pierced him
E'en to the blood of his proud head!
His last days were for him envenomed--
Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved,
He died revenge a'thirst, accusing
That every hope his heart deceived!
Mute evermore the magic echoes,
That ne'er shall wonders more reveal,
The Poet's home is dark and narrow--
Upon the Singer's lips a seal.
But ye, sons insolent and shameless--
Defamers, faithless fathers, ye!
Who trod the pure soul of another
Beneath your feet, who zealously
Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling
For fame and freedom, hatred steeled!
Well may you sneer at truth and justice,
The law provides you screen and shield,
Only a higher law shall sentence!
A mighty Judge beyond assail
Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers,
The Highest Judge who does not fail!
So then calumniate with brazen courage,
Your hatred's fury nought restrains--
Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for
One drop within the Poet's pure veins.
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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At His Grave
LEAVE me a little while alone,
Here at his grave that still is strown
With crumbling flower and wreath;
The laughing rivulet leaps and falls,
The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls,
And he lies hush’d beneath.
With myrtle cross and crown of rose,
And every lowlier flower that blows,
His new-made couch is dress’d;
Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild,
Gather’d by monarch, peasant, child,
A nation’s grief attest.
I stood not with the mournful crowd
That hither came when round his shroud
Pious farewells were said.
In the fam’d city that he sav’d,
By minaret crown’d, by billow lav’d,
I heard that he was dead.
Now o’er his tomb at last I bend,
No greeting get, no greeting tend,
Who never came before
Unto his presence, but I took,
From word or gesture, tone or look,
Some wisdom from his door.
And must I now unanswer’d wait,
And, though a suppliant at the gate,
No sound my ears rejoice?
Listen! Yes, even as I stand,
I feel the pressure of his hand,
The comfort of his voice.
How poor were Fame, did grief confess
That death can make a great life less,
Or end the help it gave!
Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane,
But his well-ripen’d deeds remain,
Untouch’d, above his grave.
Let this, too, soothe our widow’d minds;
Silenced are the opprobrious winds
Whene’er the sun goes down;
And free henceforth from noonday noise,
He at a tranquil height enjoys
The starlight of renown.
Thus hence we something more may take
Than sterile grief, than formless ache,
Or vainly utter’d vow;
Death hath bestow’d what life withheld
And he round whom detraction swell’d
Hath peace with honor now.
The open jeer, the covert taunt,
The falsehood coin’d in factious haunt,
These loving gifts reprove.
They never were but thwarted sound
Of ebbing waves that bluster round
A rock that will not move.
And now the idle roar rolls off,
Hush’d is the gibe and sham’d the scoff,
Repress’d the envious gird;
Since death, the looking-glass of life,
Clear’d of the misty breath of strife,
Reflects his face unblurr’d.
From callow youth to mellow age,
Men turn the leaf and scan the page,
And note, with smart of loss,
How wit to wisdom did mature,
How duty burn’d ambition pure,
And purged away the dross.
Youth is self-love; our manhood lends
Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends,
So that when age steals nigh,
How few find any worthier aim
Than to protract a flickering flame,
Whose oil hath long run dry!
But he, unwitting youth once flown,
With England’s greatness link’d his own,
And, steadfast to that part,
Held praise and blame but fitful sound,
And in the love of country found
Full solace for his heart.
Now in an English grave he lies:
With flowers that tell of English skies
And mind of English air,
A grateful sovereign decks his bed,
And hither long with pilgrim tread
Will English feet repair.
Yet not beside his grave alone
We seek the glance, the touch, the tone;
His home is nigh,—but there,
See from the hearth his figure fled,
The pen unrais’d, the page unread,
Untenanted the chair!
Vainly the beechen boughs have made
A fresh green canopy of shade,
Vainly the peacocks stray;
While Carlo, with despondent gait,
Wonders how long affairs of State
Will keep his lord away.
Here most we miss the guide, the friend;
Back to the churchyard let me wend,
And, by the posied mound,
Lingering where late stood worthier feet,
Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet,
A loftier dirge would sound.
At least I bring not tardy flowers:
Votive to him life’s budding powers,
Such as they were, I gave—
He not rejecting, so I may
Perhaps these poor faint spices lay,
Unchidden, on his grave!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Emancipation
Fling out your banners, your honors be bringing,
Raise to the ether your paeans of praise.
Strike every chord and let music be ringing!
Celebrate freely this day of all days.
Few are the years since that notable blessing,
Raised you from slaves to the powers of men.
Each year has seen you my brothers progressing,
Never to sink to that level again.
Perched on your shoulders sits Liberty smiling,
Perched where the eyes of the nations can see.
Keep from her pinions all contact defiling;
Show by your deeds what you're destined to be.
Press boldly forward nor waver, nor falter.
Blood has been freely poured out in your cause,
Lives sacrificed upon Liberty's alter.
Press to the front, it were craven to pause.
Look to the heights that are worth your attaining
Keep your feet firm in the path to the goal.
Toward noble deeds every effort be straining.
Worthy ambition is food for the soul!
Up! Men and brothers, be noble, be earnest!
Ripe is the time and success is assured;
Know that your fate was the hardest and sternest
When through those lash-ringing days you endured.
Never again shall the manacles gall you
Never again shall the whip stroke defame!
Nobles and Freemen, your destinies call you
Onward to honor, to glory and fame.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Sonnet 53: In Martial Sports
In martial sports I had my cunning tried,
And yet to break more staves did me address:
While, with the people's shouts, I must confess,
Youth, luck, and praise, ev'n fill'd my veins with pride;
When Cupid having me his slave descried,
In Mars's livery, prancing in the press:
'What now, Sir Fool,' said he; I would no less.
'Look here, I say.' I look'd and Stella spied,
Who hard by made a window send forth light.
My heart then quak'd, then dazzled were mine eyes;
One hand forgot to rule, th'other to fight.
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries;
My foe came on, and beat the air for me,
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.
poem by Philip Sidney
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0047 Ode to the Goddess of Punctuation
I sing of punctuation....'What? ', you say,
'I've never heard a sonnet on that theme! ';
and thus this modest goddess, clothed in grace,
performs her holy task; unheard, unseen,
except in trivial printed marks (- like this -)
punctilious editors put in - or erase;
yet, she's the Sherpa to the mind's high bliss
who leads our thoughts to peaks of silent praise;
immortal consort of the god of speech,
handmaid of mind, bestowing measured pause
between each thought; their silent truth to reach
by resting mind in mind's divine true cause.
O worship her, her power so great and blest,
whose shortest silence, wildest mind may rest!
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Praise The Cross Of Jesus
Today I praise the cross of Jesus, where He died and bled for me.
For on that very cross of Jesus, His bloody death has set me free.
Christ came to die for all of us, upon that bloody cross of Calvary.
And upon Him I place my trust, from this day through all Eternity.
It was upon the cross of Christ, that He came to die so I could live.
Christ came to offer to us His life, the gift His Father chose to give.
Jesus came to be our sacrifice, so that all our sins God will forgive.
It is through the blood of Jesus Christ, that I can now eternally live.
Nothing was done on my part, but to accept Christ and to believe.
Christ even moved upon my heart, with The Spirit that I received.
New Life in me He would start, the life The Spirit would conceive.
And for me, a message to impart, for New Life you must believe.
You must believe in Jesus Christ, who came to save you and me.
He sent The Spirit into this strife, to give us eyes so we could see,
That Jesus came to give men life, so that they could live eternally.
This life is found in Jesus Christ, and is from the blood of Calvary.
Friend, there is only but one name, that men can lift up and raise,
For no common man can claim, any credit and seek men’s praise.
No man’s glory and or fame, can compare to The Ancient of Days.
And Jesus Christ is the only name, that by all men will be praised.
Psalm 65 part 1
v.1-5
L. M.
Public prayer and praise.
The praise of Zion waits for thee,
My God, and praise becomes thy house;
There shall thy saints thy glory see,
And there perform their public vows.
O thou whose mercy bends the skies
To save when humble sinners pray,
All lands to thee shall lift their eyes,
And islands of the northern sea.
Against my will my sins prevail,
But grace shall purge away their stain;
The blood of Christ will never fail
To wash my garments white again.
Blest is the man whom thou shalt choose,
And give him kind access to thee;
Give him a place within thy house,
To taste thy love divinely free.
PAUSE.
Let Babel fear when Zion prays;
Babel, prepare for long distress,
When Zion's God himself arrays
In terror and in righteousness.
With dreadful glory God fulfils
What his afflicted saints request;
And with almighty wrath reveals
His love, to give his churches rest.
Then shall the flocking nations run
To Zion's hill, and own their Lord;
The rising and the setting sun
Shall see the Savior's name adored.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Sir William Gomm: Sonnets
I.
AT threescore years and five aroused anew
To rule in India, forth a soldier went
On whose bright-fronted youth fierce war had spent
Its iron stress of storm, till glory grew
Full as the red sun waned on Waterloo.
Landing, he met the word from England sent
Which bade him yield up rule: and he, content,
Resigned it, as a mightier warrior’s due;
And wrote as one rejoicing to record
That ‘from the first’ his royal heart was lord
Of its own pride or pain; that thought was none
Therein save this, that in her perilous strait
England, whose womb brings forth her sons so great,
Should choose to serve her first her mightiest son.
II.
Glory beyond all flight of warlike fame
Go with the warrior’s memory who preferred
To praise of men whereby men’s hearts are stirred,
And acclamation of his own proud name
With blare of trumpet-blasts and sound and flame
Of pageant honour, and the titular word
That only wins men worship of the herd,
His country’s sovereign good: who overcame
Pride, wrath, and hope of all high chance on earth,
For this land’s love that gave his great heart birth.
O nursling of the sea-winds and the sea,
Immortal England, goddess ocean-born,
What shall thy children fear, what strengths not scorn,
While children of such mould are born to thee?
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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To His Honoured And Most Ingenious Friendmr Charles Cotton
For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence,
Thou art that man of men, the man alone
Worthy the public admiration;
Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
And giv'st our numbers euphony and weight;
Tell'st when a verse springs high; how understood
To be, or not, born of the royal blood
What state above, what symmetry below,
Lines have, or should have, thou the best can show:--
For which, my Charles, it is my pride to be,
Not so much known, as to be loved of thee:--
Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays
Be less another's laurel, than thy praise.
poem by Robert Herrick
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To His Honoured and Most Ingenious Friend Mr. Charles Cotton
For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence:
Thou art that man of men, the man alone,
Worthy the public admiration:
Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
And giv'st our numbers euphony, and weight.
Tell'st when a verse springs high, how understood
To be, or not born of the Royal blood.
What state above, what symmetry below,
Lines have, or should have, thou the best canst show.
For which (my Charles) it is my pride to be,
Not so much known, as to be loved by thee.
Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays,
Be less another's laurel, than thy praise.
poem by Robert Herrick
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