Horace: Book 1, Ode 22
The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue's sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:
Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,
Or horrid Afric's faithless sands;
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.
For while by Chloe's image charm'd,
Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd;
Me singing, careless and unarm'd,
A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.
No savage more portentous stain'd
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore;
None fiercer Juba's thirsty land,
Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.
Place me where no soft summer gale
Among the quivering branches sighs;
Where clouds condensed for ever veil
With horrid gloom the frowning skies;
Place me beneath the burning line,
A clime denied to human race;
I'll sing of Cloe's charms divine,
Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Horace: Book 1, Ode 22
The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue's sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:
Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,
Or horrid Afric's faithless sands;
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.
For while by Chloe's image charm'd,
Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd;
Me singing, careless and unarm'd,
A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.
No savage more portentous stain'd
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore;
None fiercer Juba's thirsty land,
Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.
Place me where no soft summer gale
Among the quivering branches sighs;
Where clouds condensed for ever veil
With horrid gloom the frowning skies;
Place me beneath the burning line,
A clime denied to human race;
I'll sing of Cloe's charms divine,
Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Advice
AD ARIUSTUM FUSCUM
I
Horace: Book I, Ode 22.
'_Integer vitae sclerisque purus_'-
_Take it from me: A guy who's square,
His chances always are the best.
I'm in the know, for I've been there,
And that's no ancient Roman jest._
What time he hits the hay to rest
There's nothing on his mind but hair,
No javelin upon his chest-
_Take it from me, a guy who's square._
There's nothing that can throw a scare
Into the contents of his vest;
His name is Eva I-Don't-Care;
_His chances always are the best._
Why, once, when I was way out West,
Singing to Lalage, a bear
Came up, and I was some distressed-
_I'm in the know, for I've been there._
But back he went into his lair,
(Cage, corner, den, retreat, nook, nest) ,
And left me to 'The Maiden's Prayer'-
_And that's no ancient Roman jest._
In Newtonville or Cedar Crest,
In Cincinnati or Eau Claire,
I'll warble till I am a pest,
'My Lalage'-no matter where-
_Take it from me! _
II
Fuscus, my friend, take it from me-
I know the world and what it's made of-
One on the square has naught to be
Afraid of.
The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope.
Such deadly things need not alarm him.
Why, even arrows dipped in dope
Can't harm him!
He's safe in any clime or land,
Desert or river, hill or valley;
Safe in all places on the Rand-
McNally.
Why, one day in my Sabine grot,
I sang for Lalage to hear me;
A wolf came in and he did not
Come near me!
Ah, set me on the sunless plain,
In China, Norway, or Matanzas,
Ay, place me anywhere from Maine
To Kansas.
Still of my Lalage I'll sing,
Where'er the Fates may chance to dropp me;
And nobody nor anything
Shall stop me.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Complimentary Versicles to Jessie Lewars
THE TOAST
Fill me with the rosy wine,
Call a toast, a toast divine:
Giveth me Poet’s darling flame,
Lovely Jessie be her name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,
Thou hast given a peerless toast.
THE MENAGERIE
Talk not to me of savages,
From Afric’s burning sun;
No savage e’er could rend my heart,
As Jessie, thou hast done:
But Jessie’s lovely hand in mine,
A mutual faith to plight,
Not even to view the heavenly choir,
Would be so blest a sight.
JESSIE’S ILLNESS
Say, sages, what’s the charm on earth
Can turn Death’s dart aside!
It is not purity and worth,
Else Jessie had not died.
ON HER RECOVERY
But rarely seen since Nature’s birth,
The natives of the sky;
Yet still one seraph’s left on earth,
For Jessie did not die.
poem by Robert Burns
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Love and Music. Written at Oxford, When Young
Shall Love alone for ever claim
An universal right to fame,
An undisputed sway?
Or has not Music equal charms,
To fill the breast with strange alarms,
And make the world obey?
The Thracian bard, as poets tell,
Could mitigate the powers of hell,
Even Pluto's nicer ear:
His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To deities or men confined,
Drew brutes in crowds to hear.
Whatever favourite passion reign'd,
The poet still his right maintain'd
O'er all that ranged the plain:
The fiercer tyrants could assuage,
Or fire the timorous into rage,
Whene'er he changed the strain.
In milder lays the bard began;
Soft notes through every finger ran,
And echoing charm'd the place:
See! fawning lions gaze around,
And, taught to quit their savage sound,
Assume a gentler grace.
When Cymon view'd the fair one's charms,
Her ruby lips, and snowy arms,
And told her beauties o'er:
When Love reform'd his awkward tone,
And made each clownish gesture known,
It show'd but equal power.
The bard now tries a sprightlier sound,
When all the feather'd race around
Perceived the varied strains;
The soaring lark the note pursues;
The timorous dove around him coos,
And Philomel complains.
An equal power of Love I've seen,
Incite the deer to scour the green,
And chase his barking foe.
Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
To challenge-nay-sometimes-to fight,
Provoked the enamour'd beau.
When Silvia treads the smiling plain,
How glows the heart of every swain,
By pleasing tumults tost!
When Handel's solemn accents roll,
Each breast is fired, each raptured soul
In sweet confusion lost.
If she her melting glances dart,
Or he his dying airs impart,
Our spirits sink away.
Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er;
And thou, great artist! urge no more
Thy unresisted sway.
Thus Love or Sound affects the mind:
But when their various powers are join'd,
Fly, daring mortal, fly!
For when Selinda's charms appear,
And I her tuneful accents hear-
I burn, I faint, I die!
poem by William Shenstone
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The Temptress
Old Devil, when you come with horns and tail,
With diabolic grin and crafty leer;
I say, such bogey-man devices wholly fail
To waken in my heart a single fear.
But when you wear a form I know so well,
A form so human, yet so near divine;
'Tis then I fall beneath the magic of your spell,
'Tis then I know the vantage is not mine.
Ah! when you take your horns from off your head,
And soft and fragrant hair is in their place;
I must admit I fear the tangled path I tread
When that dear head is laid against my face.
And at what time you change your baleful eyes
For stars that melt into the gloom of night,
All of my courage, my dear fellow, quickly flies;
I know my chance is slim to win the fight.
And when, instead of charging down to wreck
Me on a red-hot pitchfork in your hand,
You throw a pair of slender arms about my neck,
I dare not trust the ground on which I stand.
Whene'er in place of using patent wile,
Or trying to frighten me with horrid grin,
You tempt me with two crimson lips curved in a smile;
Old Devil, I must really own, you win.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Her Prayerful Breath
She sat on the grass
beneath the summer sun
looking at you
as if for the first time
and as she looked at you
you looked beyond her
at the distant sky
and how the clouds
resembled a woman’s bust
and how humorous it was
when an airplane
went right through
on its way to some far off land
and as she took your hand
she said things about love
and how she felt
and did you feel the same
and you taking the image
of the airplane
and woman’s entered bust
said oh yes of course
trying not to let it show
on your 14 year old face
how funny that image seemed
and not realizing how deeper
and more loving she was
back then beneath
that summer sky
with you thinking
of that day and her
and her later death
and you hearing
in the silence
of the drawn out dawn
her soft words
in her prayerful breath.
poem by Terry Collett
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Elegy XXII. Written in the Year ----, When the Rights of Sepulture Were So Frequently Violated
Say, gentle Sleep! that lov'st the gloom of night,
Parent of dreams! thou great Magician! say,
Whence my late vision thus endures the light,
Thus haunts my fancy through the glare of day?
The silent moon had scaled the vaulted skies,
And anxious Care resign'd my limbs to rest;
A sudden lustre struck my wondering eyes,
And Silvia stood before my couch confest.
Ah! not the nymph so blooming and so gay,
That led the dance beneath the festive shade,
But she that, in the morning of her day,
Entomb'd beneath the grass-green sod was laid.
No more her eyes their wonted radiance cast,
No more her breast inspired the lover's flame;
No more her cheek the Pæstan rose surpass'd,
Yet seem'd her lip's ethereal smile the same.
Nor such her hair as deck'd the living face,
Nor such her voice as charm'd the listening crowd;
Nor such her dress as heighten'd every grace;
Alas! all vanish'd for the mournful shroud!
Yet seem'd her lip's ethereal charm the same;
That dear distinction every doubt removed;
Perish the lover, whose imperfect flame
Forgets one feature of the nymph he loved!
'Damon,' she said, 'mine hour allotted flies;
Oh! do not waste it with a fruitless tear!
Though grieved to see thy Sylvia's pale disguise,
Suspend thy sorrow, and attentive hear.
'So may thy Muse with virtuous fame be blest!
So be thy love with mutual love repaid!
So may thy bones in sacred silence rest!
Fast by the relics of some happier maid!
'Thou know'st how, lingering on a distant shore,
Disease invidious nipt my flowery prime;
And, oh, what pangs my tender bosom tore,
To think I ne'er must view my native clime!
'No friend was near to raise my drooping head;
No dear companion wept to see me die;
Lodge me within my native soil, I said,
There my fond parents' honour'd relics lie.
'Though now debarr'd of each domestic tear,
Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow;
There many a friend shall grace my woful bier,
And many a sigh shall rise, and tear shall flow.
'I spoke, nor Fate forbore his trembling spoil;
Some venal mourner lent his careless aid,
And soon they bore me to my native soil,
Where my fond parents' dear remains were laid.
''Twas then the youths, from every plain and grove,
Adorn'd with mournful verse thy Sylvia's bier;
'Twas then the nymphs their votive garlands wove,
And strew'd the fragrance of the youthful year.
But why, alas! the tender scene display?
Could Damon's foot the pious path decline?
Ah, no! 'twas Damon first attuned his lay,
And sure no sonnet was so dear as thine.
'Thus was I bosom'd in the peaceful grave;
My placid ghost no longer wept its doom;
When savage robbers every sanction brave,
And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb!
'Shall my poor corse, from hostile realms convey'd,
Lose the cheap portion of my native sands?
Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid,
Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands?
'Say, would thy breast no deathlike torture feel,
To see my limbs the felon's gripe obey?
To see them gash'd beneath the daring steel?
To crowds a spectre, and to dogs a prey?
'If Pæan's Sons these horrid rites require,
If Health's fair science be by these refined,
Let guilty convicts, for their use, expire,
And let their breathless corse avail mankind.
'Yet hard it seems, when Guilt's last fine is paid,
To see the victim's corse denied repose;
Now, more severe, the poor offenceless maid
Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes.
'Where is the faith of ancient Pagans fled?
Where the fond care the wand'ring Manes claim?
Nature, instinctive, cries, Protect the dead,
And sacred be their ashes, and their fame!
'Arise, dear Youth! even now the danger calls;
Even now the villain snuffs his wonted prey;
See! see!I lead thee to yon sacred walls-
Oh! fly to chase these human wolves away.'
poem by William Shenstone
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Chorus of Athenians
Strophe I.
Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught;
Where heav'nly visions of Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd!
In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.
Antistrophe I.
Oh heav'n-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and mystic Song!
To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
Say, will you bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
Strophe II.
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore,
Shall cease to blush with strager's gore.
See Arts her savage sons control,
And Athens rising near the pole!
'Till some new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from this land.
Antistrophe II.
Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!
Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.
poem by Alexander Pope
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Considerations - On Part Of The 88th Psalm. A College Exercise
Heavy, O Lord, on my thy judgements lie;
Accursed I am while God rejects my cry.
O'erwhelm'd in darkness and despair I groan,
And every place is hell, for God is gone.
O Lord, arise, and let thy beams control
Those horrid clouds that press my frighted soul:
Save the poor wanderer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of light.
Downward I hasten to my destined place;
There none obtain thy aid, or sing thy praise,
Soon shall I lie in death's deep ocean drown'd:
Is mercy there, or sweet forgiveness found?
O save me yet whilst on the brink I stand;
Rebuke the storm, and waft my soul to land,
O let her rest beneath thy wing secure,
Thou that art the God of power.
Behold the prodigal! to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to seek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and destitute of God.
O let thy terrors and my anguish end!
Be thou my refuge, and be thou my friend:
Receive the son thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of love.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Lisetta's Reply
Sure Cloe Just, and Cloe Fair
Deserves to be Your only Care:
But when You and She to-day
Far into the Wood did stray,
And I happen'd to pass by;
Which way did You cast your Eye?
But when your Cares to Her You sing,
Yet dare not tell Her whence they spring;
Does it not more afflict your Heart,
That in those Cares She bears a Part?
When You the Flow'rs for Cloe twine,
Why do You to Her Garland join
The meanest Bud that falls from Mine?
Simplest of Swains! the World may see,
Whom Cloe loves, and Who loves Me.
poem by Matthew Prior
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An Ode
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Cloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned:
I sung and gazed: I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Epitaph on a Beloved Friend
Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour’d bier!
What sighs re-echo’d to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart’s relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade’s honour and thy friend’s delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor’s art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction’s semblance bends not o’er thy tomb,
Affliction’s self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father’s sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none!—a father’s tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother’s woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.
poem by Byron (1803)
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The Merchant, To Secure His Treasure
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Cloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay—
When Cloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blushed; Euphelia frowned:
I sung, and gazed; I played, and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked how ill we all dissembled.
poem by Matthew Prior
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An Ode. The Merchant, To Secure
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure:
But Cloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And, whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Hiding Place
Hail sov'reign love that first began,
The scheme to rescue fallen man;
Hail matchless, free, eternal grace,
That gave my soul a Hiding-Place.
Against the God that rules the sky,
I fought with hands uplifted high;
Despis'd the mentions of his grace,
Too proud to seek a Hiding-Place.
Enwrapt in thick Egyptian night,
And fond of darkness more than light,
Madly I ran the sinful race,
Secure without a Hiding-Place.
But thus the eternal counsel ran,
Almighty Love arrest that man;
I felt the arrows of distress,
And saw that I'd no Hiding-Place.
Indignant Justice stood in view,
To Sina's fiery mount I flew;
But Justice cry'd with frowning face,
This mountain is no Hiding-Place.
Ere long a Heav'nly voice I heard,
And Mercy's angel form appear'd,
She led me on with placid pace,
To Jesus as my Hiding-Place.
Should storms of sevenfold thunder roll,
And shake the globe from pole to pole,
No flaming bolt should daunt my face,
For Jesus is my Hiding-Place.
On him almighty vengeance fell,
That must have sunk the world to hell:
He bore it for the chosen race,
And thus became their Hiding-Place.
A few more rolling suns at most,
Shall land us on fair Canaan's coast,
Where we shall sing the song of grace,
And see our glorious Hiding-Place.
poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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The Indian To His Love
THE island dreams under the dawn
And great boughs drop tranquillity;
The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,
A parrot sways upon a tree,
Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.
Here we will moor our lonely ship
And wander ever with woven hands,
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:
How we alone of mortals are
Hid under quiet boughs apart,
While our love grows an Indian star,
A meteor of the burning heart,
One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam
and dart,
The heavy boughs, the burnished dove
That moans and sighs a hundred days:
How when we die our shades will rove,
When eve has hushed the feathered ways,
With vapoury footsole by the water's drowsy blaze.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Question to Lisetta
WHAT nymph should I admire or trust,
But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay,
But her who listens when I play?
To whom in song repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.
LISETTA'S REPLY
Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care;
But, when you and she to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happen'd to pass by,
Which way did you cast your eye?
But, when your cares to her you sing,
You dare not tell her whence they spring:
Does it not more afflict your heart,
That in those cares she bears a part?
When you the flowers for Chloe twine,
Why do you to her garland join
The meanest bud that falls from mine?
Simplest of swains! the world may see
Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.
poem by Matthew Prior
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O! The Sacred Land
O! The Sacred Land,
May ever fall, flow melodious cascades,
Flourish your deep valleys, green glades,
And may time erase the streak of divisions,
Of caste, of creed, of sects and grades.
O! The Sacred Land,
May upon your face flowers ever bloom,
Till the world goes on, till the day of doom,
And may He secure, protect your treasures,
Cast away winds of pain, clouds of gloom.
O! The Sacred Land,
May sweet sun ever shine upon your land,
The rains ever pour upon your thirsty sand,
May your children live the life full of bliss,
While going ahead supporting hand in hand.
O! The Sacred Land,
May you ever progress by leaps and bounds,
And ever vibrate with the melodious sounds,
Your valleys, your plains and forests green,
Your lofty mountains, your hills and mounds.
O! The Sacred Land,
May God thrive your village, city and town,
And He wrap them all with heavenly gown,
Of love and faith, of peace and patience,
And rule the world wearing the golden crown.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Autumn Woods
Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold,
In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.
My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,--
The sweetest of the year.
Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?
Let in through all the trees
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright?
Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles, like beams of light.
The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.
But 'neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Her blush of maiden shame.
Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!
Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed
For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west
To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife
That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Morning Land
Around and beneath, the dull grey mist and the sullen roar of the sea,
Scant footing-place on the sheer cliffs face—with death for a penalty;
But afar and above there is rest and love, there is hope for brain and hand,
The valleys fair and the crystal air and the peaks of Morning Land.
Around and beneath are the mists of toil and the sullen roar of the world,
And the sneer of scorn for a foothold gone and a climber backward hurled;
But afar and above are the hopes of men with the heart and will to stand
On the thin rift’s edge and the slippery ledge that lead to Morning Land.
They slip and fall from the sheer cliffs face; ah, God! they are falling still!
But another leaps for the vacant place, and another his place will fill.
’Tis little they fear the coward’s sneer, or the scorn of a selfish band,
Whose eyes are set on the parapet and the heights of Morning Land.
Hark to the ring as their rock picks swing, and bite for a foothold there!
Grip by grip they are straining up that others may travel fair.
The world will follow them all some day, the men it has shunned and banned,
The gallant hearts that hewed the way that leads to Morning Land.
poem by George Essex Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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