Nature in Perfection
Mater ait, tacta est dea Nomine Matris.
Ovid
--- Utinam modo dicere Possem
Carmina digna dea, certe est dea carmine digna.
Virgil
Let hireling Poets ply their venal Lays,
The Great, the Pow'rful, and the Rich, to praise;
Let Male-contents with Satire tickled be,
And Love-sick Coxcombs sink in Simile:
A diff'rent Theme my Verses shall employ,
A Mother's Anguish and a Mother's Joy.
And thou, O Bret! the softest of thy Kind,
Accept this Picture of a Parent's Mind;
If ever am'rous Plaint your Ear could please,
Or Love, or Pity, on your Bosom seize,
With fav'ring Smiles a well-meant Song regard,
And, Oh, forgive an unexperienc'd Bard,
If faintly he describe the Bliss, or Woe,
Which only you, who feel it, truly know.
From that sad Hour, when your unhappy Son
Struck thro the Life that forfeited his own,
What Doubts, what Fears, your anxious Soul posses'd,
And tore the soft Asylum of your Breast?
Oh, where for Shelter shall the Afflicted fly?
Or where expect a sweeter-Sanctuary?
Accus'd, forlorn, the much-lov'd Youth behold,
Depriv'd of Freedom, destitute of Gold;
Gold, that, from Dungeons, Criminals can free,
And ev'n in Newgate offers Liberty:
Prophets of Fate, where rav'nous Vulturs ply'd,
Cruel as Death, as Death unsatisfied;
Where Felons, Murd'rers, Traytors are secur'd,
And, if not guiltless, uncondemn'd immur'd;
Where thick built Walls th'imprison'd Wretch deprive
Almost of vital Air, while yet alive;
A Place, which scarce the Grave to which it leads,
In Damps, in Darkness, or in Stench exceeds.
How did your Kindness ease this Lot severe,
Your Fondness tend him, and your Bounty chear?
No Glympse of Joy your Pleasures then convey'd,
Nor Midnight Ball, nor Morning Masquerade.
In vain to crouded Drawing Rooms you run:
The Court a Desart seems without your Son.
If sportive Youth with sparkling Vigour come,
You see with secret Pain their opening Bloom.
Why was my Son (thus to yourself you say)
As young, and not so fortunate as they?
Nor sight of Age your Passion can endure:
-And must my Son then leave me immature?
Still others' Joys you view'd, and tasted none,
Still others' Griefs were lighter than your own;
And still whate'er you hear, whate'er you see,
Is cause for Plaint, and Food for Misery.
Your soft Distress, your Tenderness of Pain,
Can never be describ'd, or felt by Man;
Your Anna dear, taught by your matchless Mind,
Copies that glorious Frailty of her kind;
The Sister's Love, in Time of Danger shown,
Can only be transcended by your own.
In his Defence mov'd your persuasive Tongue,
Excus'd the Rash, and pleaded for the Young.
You, Heav'n, and Earth sollicite on his Side,
No Friend unspoke to, and no Art untried.
Your Art, your Importunity is weak,
You move resistless, if the Mother speak.
How vainly I recall my num'rous Fears,
The Pains he cost me in his Infant Years!
Was it for this I bore him on my Knees?
Was all my Foresight, were my Throes for this?
Each pleasing Hope, that with his Life began,
All dash'd, preserv'd the Boy, but lost the Man.
Strike me, and spare my Child! Oh, let me save
The Life by Friendship, I by Nature gave!
So Birds, by Instinct taught, supply with Food,
And chear, with genial Warmth, their callow Brood,
And oft their kind, maternal Breasts expose,
To guard their helpless Young from threat'ning Foes,
Fearless, and fierce, unequal Fight maintain,
And dye themselves, e'er see their Offspring slain.
The Doom once past o'er his devoted Head,
The Sword hangs, threat'ning, by a single Thread.
While, bent with Chains, the Weight he scarcely bore,
Which gall'd the Wearer much, the Mother more,
Who can the Tortures of your Soul declare,
Your Noon-tide Labours, and your Mid-night Prayer?
Let meaner Friends to view the Pris'ner go,
Whose slighter Love can bear that Sight of Woe;
A Sight too shocking for a Mother's Eye,
Which yet your utmost Caution cannot flye:
Still to your Mind the darling Youth appears,
And racks your Bosom with tormenting Fears!
Present, where-e'er you move, the Phantom seems,
And haunts, with ghastly Shapes, your Morning Dreams!
The Scene of Justice, to your sleeping Eyes,
Stands terribly display'd-and now he dies!
Thick to your Heart the vital Currents run,
You start, and waking cry-My Son! My Son!
Let none object you no Concern reveal'd,
Fire oft glows fiercest, that is most conceal'd:
Great Griefs are speechless, petty Sorrow speaks,
The Heart, which vents its Anguish never breaks;
Your Woes the old poetic Tales revive,
And Credit to their wildest Fables give.
So Niobe, when, in her Presence fell
The boasted Offspring she had lov'd too well,
Thro Horror stiff, beheld, with stupid Eye,
The last fair Rival of th'Immortals die;
While mightier Grief, than e'er by Words was shown,
Transform'd the silent Mourner to a Stone.
By Nature touch'd, his Pardon all desire,
And imitate the Virtue they admire,
Unite, his dire Misfortune to bemoan,
And join in Crowds to supplicate the Throne;
Who-e'er the Mother view'd, her Offspring lov'd,
His Hundreds He, but She her Thousands mov'd;
From Breast to Breast contagious Mercy crept,
And Fops and Statesmen wonder'd why they wept!
Hearts hard before, unwonted Yearning know,
Ev'n Jaylers melted at a Mother's Woe.
But see! he lives, whose Death you late deplor'd!
And angry Justice sheaths her awful Sword;
Unhop'd-for Joy th'Imperial Mercy brings,
Mercy, the best Prerogative of Kings.
With Triumph now you see the Tempest o'er,
With Raptures mighty, as your Grief before.
Not so Tyrconnel welcom'd the Relief,
Inferior in his Joy, as in his Grief;
Stranger to Motions of a Mother's Mind,
In Manners diff'rent, as in Kindred join'd.
Since for your Seed such Kindness you express,
Oh, may each Child give equal Happiness!
With boundless Gratitude your Bosom burns,
Your Taste for Pleasures, and for Court returns!
To Minds transported ev'ry Thing is gay,
And January's self appears like May,
Each Change of Time in Extacy is lost,
Nor Age feels Winter, nor December Frost.
Of bright, now brighter shine your lovely Eyes,
And, wing'd with Joy, th'exalted Spirits rise;
New Warmth, new Vigour to your Veins impart,
And dance tumultuous to your beating Heart.
But Oh, beware, and curb th'o'erflowing Tide,
For oft the Over-fortunate have died,
Whom Grief, in vain, had labour'd to destroy,
Surpris'd, unequal to Excess of Joy.
And ah! too far th'unwieldy Joy prevails,
For Life, itself, may sink when Reason fails!
Since oft so high your Extacies have grown,
You seem'd the Ties of Nature to disown;
Lost for a While to Mem'ry, you disclaim
A Child so dearly lov'd, and Mother's Name!
What dang'rous Transport parent Hearts may feel,
Let Ovid soft, the Lady's Poet, tell.
Thus old Agave, mad, denies her Boy,
Possess'd with frantic, Bacchanalian Joy,
Knows not his Form, but with distracted Roar,
Mistakes her Offspring for a Forest-Boar,
Runs to compleat his Death, exulting on,
And slays a Monster, while She kills her Son.
Soon as the short Delirium past you find,
And Sense regains it's Empire o'er the Mind,
You bless the Hand that eas'd your anxious Cares,
And pour for Brunswick's House incessant Prayers!
Let the King live! (thus speaks your ardent Zeal!)
Long live, a Parent's Happiness to feel
May Peace for ever bless the sacred Line,
That ev'ry Son may live, as well as mine!
Not equal Gladness o'er your Bosom spread;
When first the Infant bless'd your genial Bed.
Not half the Mother's Transport did you find,
For what is Body's Ease to Ease of Mind?
Nor when his Prattling did your Ears engage,
And promised Wonders in his riper Age;
Nor when the Race of Youth he gayly ran,
And rose thro' various Hazards up to Man,
As when Great Cæsar spoke the Royal Word,
Which him to Life, and you to Peace restor'd,
Both by their Sov'reign's Favour born anew,
He twice a Son, and twice a Mother you.
Finis
poem by Richard Savage
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Benedicts
Original Latin lyrics:
Benedictus qui est venit
In nomine Domine
In nomine
In nomine
In nomine Domine
In nomine Domine
In nomine
In nomine
In nomine Domine
English translation:
Blessed are those who have come
In the name of the Lord
In the name
In the name
In the name of the Lord
In the name of the Lord
In the name
In the name
In the name of the Lord
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smell Of Desire
(cretu-fairstein)
Je ne dors plus
Je suis folle. je mabandonne
Je ne dors plus
Je suis a toi
(translation:
I cant sleep anymore
I am crazy. I am letting myself go
I cant sleep anymore
Im yours )
In reverse
In nomine christi, amen
In nomine christi, amen
In nomine christi, amen
In nomine christi, amen
In nomine christi, amen
In nomine christi, amen
(translation:
In the name of christ, so be it
In the name of christ, so be it
In the name of christ, so be it
In the name of christ, so be it
In the name of christ, so be it
In the name of christ, so be it )
The eternal flame will always burn
Feel - understand - and learn
song performed by by Enigma
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thoughts On The Roman Palatine
In Apollo’s portico among the empty shelves,
Where nor gods nor poets spoke what emperors demand –
Virgil’s vast shrine to loved Gallus dead,
Ovid’s allegories of empire’s rape –
I sit and watch Cybele’s hippodrome,
Hear the squeal of chariots, the sweating horses,
And cheer them home, the red and white,
A single voice among the roaring past.
The Battle of El-Teb
Ye sons of Great Britain, I think no shame
To write in praise of brave General Graham!
Whose name will be handed down to posterity without any stigma,
Because, at the battle of El-Teb, he defeated Osman Digna.
With an army about five thousand strong,
To El-Teb, in the year 1884, he marched along,
And bivouacked there for the night;
While around their fires they only thought of the coming fight.
They kept up their fires all the long night,
Which made the encampment appear weird-like to the sight;
While the men were completely soaked with the rain,
But the brave heroes disdained to complain.
The brave heroes were glad when daylight did appear,
And when the reveille was sounded, they gave a hearty cheer
And their fires were piled up higher again,
Then they tried to dry their clothes that were soaked with the rain.
Then breakfast was taken about eight o'clock,
And when over, each man stood in the ranks as firm as a rock,
And every man seemed to be on his guard --
All silent and ready to move forward.
The first movement was a short one from where they lay --
Then they began to advance towards El-Teb without dismay,
And showed that all was in order for the fray,
While every man's heart seemed to feel light and gay.
The enemy's position could be seen in the distance far away
But the brave heroes marched on without delay --
Whilst the enemy's banners floated in the air,
And dark swarms of men were scattered near by there.
Their force was a large one -- its front extended over a mile,
And all along the line their guns were all in file;
But as the British advanced, they disappeared,
While our brave kilty lads loudly cheered.
Thus slowly and cautiously brave General Graham proceeded
And to save his men from slaughter, great caution was needed,
Because Osman Digna's force was about ten thousand strong;
But he said, Come on, my brave lads, we'll conquer them ere long!
It was about ten o'clock when they came near the enemy's lines,
And on the morning air could be heard the cheerful chimes
Corning from the pipes of the gallant Black Watch,
Which every ear in the British force was eager to catch.
Then they passed by the enemy about mid-day,
While every Arab seemed to have his gun ready for the fray
When a bullet strikes down General Baker by the way,
But he is soon in the saddle again without delay,
And ready for any service that he could perform;
Whilst the bullets fell around them in a perfect storm
That they had to lie down, but not through fear,
Because the enemy was about 800 yards on their left rear.
Then General Graham addressed his men,
And said, If they won't attack us, we must attack them,
So start to your feet, my lads, and never fear,
And strike up your bagpipes, and give a loud cheer.
So they leapt to their feet, and gave a loud cheer,
While the Arabs swept down upon them without the least fear,
And put aside their rifles, and grasped their spears;
Whilst the British bullets in front of them the earth uptears.
Then the British charged them with their cold steel,
Which made the Arabs backward for to reel;
But they dashed forward again on their ranks without dismay,
But before the terrible fire of their musketry they were swept away.
Oh, God of Heaven! it was a terrible sight
To see, and hear the Arabs shouting with all their might
A fearful oath when they got an inch of cold steel,
Which forced them backwards again and made them reel.
By two o'clock they were fairly beat,
And Osman Digna, the false prophet, was forced to retreat
After three hours of an incessant fight;
But Heaven, 'tis said, defends the right.
And I think he ought to be ashamed of himself;
For I consider he has acted the part of a silly elf,
By thinking to conquer the armies of the Lord
With his foolish and benighted rebel horde.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eccetera Eccetera
Ti penso eccetera eccetera
E mi spero in te
La cartolina nell'anima
Che mancata a noi
Uh, c'eri
Ero distratto
C'ero anch'io
E tu con me
C'era un po' da fare
Lo facemmo
Credo eccetera di amarti
Come il vino mi rapisti
Ma cos sinceramente
Che da un po' da quando non ci sei
Non ho piume o yesterdays
E rimpiango certe cose
Sto bene eccetera eccetera
Male senza te
Nel vento caldo e purissimo
Io ti spero in me
Uh, spero
Fior di spino
Ti ricordi
Che sono qui
Mosso un po' agitato
Da ricostruire
Credo eccetera di amarti
Come il vino mi rapisti
Ma cos sinceramente
Che da un po' da quando non ci sei
Non ho piume o yesterdays
E rimpiango certe cose
Sei tu, che illumini la notte
X te, si stempera la notte
Credo eccetera di amarti
Come il vino mi rapisti
Ma cos sinceramente
Che da un po' da quando non ci sei
Non ho piume o yesterdays
E rimpiango certe cose
Credo eccetera che sia
Quando sei andata via
Con il vento nelle suole
E da un po' da quando non ci sei
Non ho reti o yesterdays
E rimpiango certe cose
Credo eccetera di amarti
Come assente, perdonarti
Ma cos sinceramente
Che non so volare non so
Non ho piume o yesterdays
E le stelle e certe cose
song performed by by Zucchero
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Mr. Dryden
How long, great Poet, shall thy sacred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise?
Can eneither injuries of time, or age,
Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
No so thy Ovid in his exile wrote,
Grief chill'd his breast,and check'd his rising thought:
Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.
Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest,
And second youth is kindled in thy breast;
Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own;
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle
In smoother numbers, and a clearer style;
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his satire, and improves his rage,
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
And still out-shines, the bright original.
Now Ovid boasts th' advanage of thy song,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show
How thy own laurel first began to grow:
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods.
O may'st thou still the noble talk prolong,
Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song:
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams;
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mold
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How some in feathers, or a ragged hide,
Have liv'd a second life, and different natures try'd.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal
A nobler change than he himself can tell.
poem by Joseph Addison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Of poets I put Virgil first - he was greatest.
quote by Mary MacLane
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A poor pen
Pen is
Not great...
On the paper...
poet write at
Moon+ sky...
Stars...
Earth and sea...
All are in poets
Hand only
At poets hand...
Poets is think...
Poets dream...
Thats all
pen is very poor
Noock out...
undrestad to try...
Try too under stand....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The City Of Poets,12/26/09
in the city
of poets
all men
are equals
and stride about
congratulating
one another
on their genius.
in the city
of poets
the statistics
of attentive readers
exceed
all expectations
and the bookstores
burst
like fat silos
with their harvest
of rhyme.
in the city
of poets
passports
to immortality
are issued
with abandon,
frontiers
evaporate,
and customs gates
are thrown open
by exuberant
and trusting
guards.
The city of poets
is a classless
society
where no one
dares admit
the existence
of aristocrats
or kings
and everyone
shamelessly
lays claim
to successful
expression.
In the city of poets
bad verse
drives out good
or rather
drowns it
in a sea
of mediocrity,
a conspiracy
of equality,
a brotherhood
of banality,
and every man
is his own
best
bard.
poem by Percy Dovetonsils
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our farewell song to P.M.C.
Our Alma-mater is P.M.C;
Our Alma-mater, we salute thee;
We are now full-fledged good Doctors!
We start to serve, the sick forev’r.
We will remember our College;
Until we reach our Life’s end-stage;
We had our days of much ordeal;
We are now all so free, we feel.
We had our tussles and fist-fights;
Happy to have just won our rights;
We had our days of rejoicings;
Entwined in love, today this song we sing.
We love our Teachers who taught us well;
To be quite patient always in Life;
And guided us in numerous ways;
Showing us all, that there are better days!
We look ahead to a future bright;
Our past was dear, sad days, despite;
We will miss this ev’rgreen campus;
And the sweet songs that, Birds sang to us.
Recreation did suffer although;
Success in life always will show;
Our stay in P.M.C. was so great;
On the whole it, was a joyful state.
We will miss P.M.C.forev’r;
Farewell to our dear Alma-mater;
We are now full-fledged good DOCTORS;
Ready to heal the sick forev’r.
Our Alma-mater is P.M.C;
Our Alma-mater, we salute thee!
Farewell, farewell dear P.M.C.;
We will again come to see thee.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Principles Of Lust
Procedamus in pace
In nomine christi, amen...
Cum angelis et pueris, fideles inveniamur
Attollite portas, principes, vestras
Et elevamini, portae aeternales
Et introibit rex gloriae
Qius est iste rex glorie?
Sade, dit moi...
Sade, donne moi...
Procedamus in pace
In nomine christi, amen...
Sade dit moi quest ce que tu vas chercher ?
Le bien par le mal ?
La vertu par le vice ?
Sade dit moi pourquoi levangile du mal ?
Quelle est ta religion ou' sont tes fide'les ?
Si tu es contre dieu, tu es contre lhomme.
Sade es-tu diabolique ou divin ?
(3x)
Sade, dit moi...
Hosanna...
Sade, donne moi...
Hosanna...
In nomine christi, amen...
B : find love
The principles of lust... are easy to understand
Do what you feel... feel until the end
The principles of lust... are burnt in your mind
Do what you want... do it until you find love...
C : sadeness (reprise)
(3x)
Sade, dit moi...
Hosanna...
Sade, donne moi...
Hosanna...
song performed by by Enigma
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Voices
EACH small gleam was a voice
-A lantern voice-
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colors came over the water;
The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
No pines crooned on the hills
The blue night was elsewhere a silence
When the chorus of colors came over the water,
Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
Small glowing pebbles
Thrown on the dark plane of evening
Sing good ballads of God
And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers
None can doubt the truth of your hymning
When the marvelous chorus comes over the water
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
poem by Stephen Crane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Each Small Gleam Was a Voice
Each small gleam was a voice,
A lantern voice --
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colours came over the water;
The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
No pines crooned on the hills,
The blue night was elsewhere a silence,
When the chorus of colours came over the water,
Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
Small glowing pebbles
Thrown on the dark plane of evening
Sing good ballads of God
And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers,
None can doubt the truth of your hymning,
When the marvellous chorus comes over the water,
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
poem by Stephen Crane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.
quote by T.S. Eliot (1920)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Road (2011)
Carmina Villaroel, Rhian Ramos, TJ Trinidad, Barbie Forteza, Lexi Fernandez, Derick Monasterio, Alden Richards
from The Road (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We As Poets
We as poets must command a sacred accent over a language of our choice,
We as poets must gift the minds of a failing generation,
We as poets must demand a clear explanation and a fair occupation,
We as poets must dissolve into particles and dust if we have not known enough,
We as poets must destroy the living standards of low quality,
We are to be the poetry of utmost perception and suffering.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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