The Winter's Walk
Behold, my fair, where'er we rove,
What dreary prospects round us rise,
The naked hill, the leafless grove,
The hoary ground, the frowning skies.
Nor only through the wasted plain,
Stern Winter is thy force confess'd;
Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power usurp my breast.
Enlivening hope, and fond desire,
Resign the heart to spleen and care;
Scarce frighted love maintains her fire,
And rapture saddens to despair.
In groundless hope, and causeless fear,
Unhappy man! behold thy doom;
Still changing with the changeful year
The slave of sunshine and of gloom.
Tired with vain joys, the false alarms,
With mental and corporeal strife,
Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,
And screen me from the ills of life.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Spring
Stern Winter now, by Spring repress'd
Forbears the long-continued strife;
And Nature, on her naked breast,
Delights to catch the gales of life.
Now o'er the rural kingdom roves,
Soft pleasures with her laughing train,
Love warbles in the vocal groves,
And vegetation plants the plain.
Unhappy! whom to beds of pain
Arthritic tyranny consigns;
Whom smiling Nature courts in vain,
Though rapture sings and beauty shines.
Yet though my limbs disease invades,
Her wings imagination tries,
And bears me to the peaceful shades,
Where ---- 's humble turrets rise.
Here let me through the vales pursue,
A guide - a father - and a friend,
Once more great Nature's works renew,
Once more on Wisdom's voice attend.
From false caresses, causeless strife,
Wild hope, vain fear, alike removed;
Here let me learn the use of life,
When best enjoy'd - when most improved.
Teach me, thou venerable bower,
Cool meditation's quiet seat,
The generous scorn of venal power,
The silent grandeur of retreat.
When pride by guilt to greatness climbs,
Or raging factions rush to war,
Here let me learn to shun the crimes
I can't prevent and will not share.
But lest I fall by subtler foes,
Bright wisdom teach me Curio's art,
The swelling passions to compose,
And quell the rebels of the heart.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Winter
No more the morn with tepid rays
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve distills the dew.
The lingering hours prolong the night,
Usurping darkness shares the day;
Her mists restrain the force of light,
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.
By gloomy twilight half revealed,
With sighs we view the hoary hill,
The leafless wood, the naked field,
The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill.
No music warbles through the grove,
No vivid colours paint the plain;
No more with devious steps I rove
Through verdant paths, now sought in vain.
Aloud the driving tempest roars;
Congeal'd impetuous showers descend;
Haste, close the window, bar the doors,
Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.
In nature's aid let art supply
With light and heat my little sphere;
Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high;
Light up a constellation here.
Let music sound the voice of joy!
Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;
Let love his wanton wiles employ,
And o'er the season wine prevail.
Yet time life's dreary winter brings,
When mirth's gay tale shall please no more;
Nor music charm, though Stella sings;
Nor love, nor wine the spring restore.
Catch the, O! catch the transient hour,
Improve each moment as it flies;
Life's a short Summer - man a flower,
He dies - alas! how soon he dies!
poem by Samuel Johnson
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For The New Year
FLUSHED with a crimson sunrise beauty,
The fair new year its promise gave;
Such dreams we had of love, of duty,
Of heights to scale, of foes to brave!
Oh, how hope's fire our future lighted--
How much to do, how much to know,
Yet on its brink we shrank affrighted
A year ago.
And now the year is done--its pleasure
So brief, so bright--its hours of pain;
Some moments' memories we treasure,
Some recollections loathe in vain.
Oh, for a brain where could not waken
Remembrances of purpose crossed,
Of trusts abandoned, aims forsaken,
And chances lost!
The changing seasons thrust upon us
Another year, fair-faced and new;
What evil have the old years done us
That this in its turn will not do?
This, too, will die, and leave us grieving
For all the ills its arms enfold--
For faiths betrayed, for friends deceiving,
And love grown cold.
We have been fooled. The hopes that fooled us--
We know them now--have been a lie;
The star that led, the light that ruled us--
We scorn them, and we pass them by.
Shut out hope's light; past is the season
When rose-red glow seemed good to see.
Look--by the cold white light of reason,
These things shall be:
A long, dim vista, blank and dreary--
The same hard failure, small success;
The same tired heart, the brain still weary
Of its intense self-consciousness;
The old despair, the old repining,
And, through the future's deepest night,
Down life's untrodden ways still shining,
The old hope's light!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Views of Life
When sinks my heart in hopeless gloom,
And life can shew no joy for me;
And I behold a yawning tomb,
Where bowers and palaces should be;
In vain you talk of morbid dreams;
In vain you gaily smiling say,
That what to me so dreary seems,
The healthy mind deems bright and gay.
I too have smiled, and thought like you,
But madly smiled, and falsely deemed:
Truth led me to the present view,
I'm waking now -- 'twas then I dreamed.
I lately saw a sunset sky,
And stood enraptured to behold
Its varied hues of glorious dye:
First, fleecy clouds of shining gold;
These blushing took a rosy hue;
Beneath them shone a flood of green;
Nor less divine, the glorious blue
That smiled above them and between.
I cannot name each lovely shade;
I cannot say how bright they shone;
But one by one, I saw them fade;
And what remained whey they were gone?
Dull clouds remained, of sombre hue,
And when their borrowed charm was o'er,
The azure sky had faded too,
That smiled so softly bright before.
So, gilded by the glow of youth,
Our varied life looks fair and gay;
And so remains the naked truth,
When that false light is past away.
Why blame ye, then, my keener sight,
That clearly sees a world of woes,
Through all the haze of golden light,
That flattering Falsehood round it throws?
When the young mother smiles above
The first-born darling of her heart,
Her bosom glows with earnest love,
While tears of silent transport start.
Fond dreamer! little does she know
The anxious toil, the suffering,
The blasted hopes, the burning woe,
The object of her joy will bring.
Her blinded eyes behold not now
What, soon or late, must be his doom;
The anguish that will cloud his brow,
The bed of death, the dreary tomb.
As little know the youthful pair,
In mutual love supremely blest,
What weariness, and cold despair,
Ere long, will seize the aching breast.
And, even, should Love and Faith remain,
(The greatest blessings life can show,)
Amid adversity and pain,
To shine, throughout with cheering glow;
They do not see how cruel Death
Comes on, their loving hearts to part:
One feels not now the gasping breath,
The rending of the earth-bound heart, --
The soul's and body's agony,
Ere she may sink to her repose,
The sad survivor cannot see
The grave above his darling close;
Nor how, despairing and alone,
He then must wear his life away;
And linger, feebly toiling on,
And fainting, sink into decay.
Oh, Youth may listen patiently,
While sad Experience tells her tale;
But Doubt sits smiling in his eye,
For ardent Hope will still prevail!
He hears how feeble Pleasure dies,
By guilt destroyed, and pain and woe;
He turns to Hope - and she replies,
'Believe it not - it is not so!'
'Oh, heed her not!' Experience says,
'For thus she whispered once to me;
She told me, in my youthful days,
How glorious manhood's prime would be.
When, in the time of early Spring,
Too chill the winds that o'er me pass'd,
She said, each coming day would bring
A fairer heaven, a gentler blast.
And when the sun too seldom beamed,
The sky, o'ercast, too darkly frowned,
The soaking rain too constant streamed,
And mists too dreary gathered round;
'She told me Summer's glorious ray
Would chase those vapours all away,
And scatter glories round,
With sweetest music fill the trees,
Load with rich scent the gentle breeze,
And strew with flowers the ground.
But when, beneath that scorching ray,
I languished, weary, through the day,
While birds refused to sing,
Verdure decayed from field and tree,
And panting Nature mourned with me
The freshness of the Spring.
"Wait but a little while," she said,
"Till Summer's burning days are fled;
And Autumn shall restore,
With golden riches of her own,
And Summer's glories mellowed down,
The freshness you deplore."
And long I waited, but in vain:
That freshness never came again,
Though Summer passed away,
Though Autumn's mists hung cold and chill,
And drooping nature languished still,
And sank into decay.
Till wintry blasts foreboding blew
Through leafless trees - and then I knew
That Hope was all a dream.
But thus, fond youth, she cheated me;
And she will prove as false to thee,
Though sweet her words may seem.'
Stern prophet! Cease thy bodings dire -
Thou canst not quench the ardent fire
That warms the breast of youth.
Oh, let it cheer him while it may,
And gently, gently die away --
Chilled by the damps of truth!
Tell him, that earth is not our rest;
Its joys are empty -- frail at best;
And point beyond the sky.
But gleams of light may reach us here;
And hope the roughest path can cheer:
Then do not bid it fly!
Though hope may promise joys, that still
Unkindly time will ne'er fulfil;
Or, if they come at all,
We never find them unalloyed, -
Hurtful perchance, or soon destroyed,
They vanish or they pall;
Yet hope itself a brightness throws
O'er all our labours and our woes;
While dark foreboding Care
A thousand ills will oft portend,
That Providence may ne'er intend
The trembling heart to bear.
Or if they come, it oft appears,
Our woes are lighter than our fears,
And far more bravely borne.
Then let us not enhance our doom;
But e'en in midnight's blackest gloom
Expect the rising morn.
Because the road is rough and long,
Shall we despise the skylark's song,
That cheers the wanderer's way?
Or trample down, with reckless feet,
The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet
Because they soon decay?
Pass pleasant scenes unnoticed by,
Because the next is bleak and drear;
Or not enjoy a smiling sky,
Because a tempest may be near?
No! while we journey on our way,
We'll notice every lovely thing;
And ever, as they pass away,
To memory and hope we'll cling.
And though that awful river flows
Before us, when the journey's past,
Perchance of all the pilgrim's woes
Most dreadful -- shrink not - 'tis the last!
Though icy cold, and dark, and deep;
Beyond it smiles that blessed shore,
Where none shall suffer, none shall weep,
And bliss shall reign for evermore!
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
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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
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Sonnet XXVI: I Ever Love
To Despair
I ever love where never hope appears,
Yet hope draws on my never-hoping care,
And my life's hope would die, but for despair;
My never-certain joy breeds ever-certain fears;
Uncertain dread gives wings unto my hope,
Yet my hope's wings are laden so with fear
As they cannot ascend to my hope's sphere;
Though fear gives them more than a heav'nly scope,
Yet this large room is bounded with despair;
So my love is still fetter'd with vain hope,
And liberty deprives him of his scope,
And thus am I imprison'd in the air.
Then, sweet despair, awhile hold up thy head,
Or all my hope for sorrow will be dead.
poem by Michael Drayton
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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 Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
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Horace: Book IV. Ode 7
The snow dissolv'd, no more is seen;
The fields and woods, behold! are green;
The changing year renews the plain,
The rivers know their banks again;
The sprightly nymph and naked grace
The mazy dance together trace.
The changing year's successive plan
Proclaims mortality to man.
Rough winter's blasts to spring give way,
Spring yields to summer's sovereign ray;
Then summer sinks in autumn's reign,
And winter chills the world again:
Her losses soon the moon supplies,
But wretched man, when once he lies
Where Priam and his sons are laid,
Is nought but ashes and a shade.
Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,
Will toss us in a morning more?
What with your friend you nobly share,
At least, you rescue from your heir.
Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,
When Minos once has fix'd your doom,
Or eloquence, or splendid birth,
Or virtue, shall restore to earth.
Hippolytus, unjustly slain,
Diana calls to life in vain;
Nor can the might of Theseus rend
The chains of hell, that hold his friend.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Wisdom after Victory
Now comes to an end all our dolorous drifting;
Clouds pass away and depression is lifting.
Because we were wise in our planning and sought
The lesser of ills that the greater be fought
Hope springs again in the heart of the nation;
Because we were brave and accepted oblation
Of sharp sacrifice, now comes recompense near
With the dawn of our glorious Centenary year.
For the good of our souls have we borne the dark sorrows
Of that gloomy day which buys many bright morrows;
For the good of our land have we chosen to shun
The glittering sand, that real treasure be won.
And we who were counted the prodigal nation
Have won new renown by our self-immolation
And the lands of the earth now in wonder behold
This youngest of lands in grave wisdom grown old.
And now we return with new heart to our labor,
And, where gloom was rife, neighbor smiles upon neighbor;
And now comes, to light our Centenary year
Not the dawn of false hope ever followed by fear
But a dawn that shall last and wax ever in brightness,
Bringing strength to the weak: to the heavy heart, lightness.
Bringing hope to the fearful and ending dismay.
Because we have chosen the fighter's hard way.
Then let us not squander our hardly-won treasure
In pursuit of false joys and enfeebling leisure.
Tried in the fire, we have proven our worth:
We have proven our strength to the peoples of earth.
If courage in ill days has won us salvation,
So wisdom in good days shall flee the temptation
To seek prosperity vain, foolish things.
Let us husband the gifts our Centenary brings.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Paraphrase On The Latter Part Of The Sixth Chapter Of St Matthew
When my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear:
While all my warring passions are at strife,
Oh! let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart.
'Think not, when all your scanty stores afford,
Is spread at once upon the springing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While on the roof the howling tempest bears;
What farther shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed?
Behold! and look away your low despair -
See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them, not stores, nor granaries, belong;
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song;
Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.
To him they sing, when spring renews the plain;
To him they cry, in winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain;
He hears the gay, and the distressful call;
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.'
'Observe the rising lily's snowy grace;
Observe the various vegetable race:
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow;
Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestmentscan with them compare?
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!'
'If ceaseless, thus, the fowls of heav'n he feeds;
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads;
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say?
Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?'
poem by James Thomson
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Ode, written 1739
Urit spes animi credula mutui.-Hor.
Imitation.
Fond hope of a reciprocal desire
Inflames the breast.
'Twas not by beauty's aid alone
That Love usurp'd his airy throne,
His boasted power display'd;
'Tis kindness that secures his aim,
'Tis hope that feeds the kindling flame
Which beauty first convey'd.
In Clara's eyes the lightning view;
Her lips with all the rose's hue
Have all its sweets combined;
Yet vain the blush, and faint the fire,
Till lips at once, and eyes, conspire
To prove the charmer kind--
Though wit might gild the tempting snare
With softest accent, sweetest air,
By envy's self admired;
If Lesbia's wit betray'd her scorn,
In vain might every Grace adorn
What every Muse inspired.
Thus airy Strephon tuned his lyre-
He scorn'd the pangs of wild desire,
Which lovesick swains endure;
Resolved to brave the keenest dart,
Since frowns could never wound his heart;
And smiles-must ever cure.
But, ah! how false these maxims prove,
How frail security from love,
Experience hourly shows;
Love can imagined smiles supply;
On every charming lip and eye
Eternal sweets bestows.
In vain we trust the fair one's eyes;
In vain the sage explores the skies,
To learn from stars his fate;
Till, led by fancy wide astray,
He finds no planet mark his way;
Convinced and wise-too late.
As partial to their words we prove,
Then boldly join the lists of love,
With towering hopes supplied:
So heroes, taught by doubtful shrines,
Mistook their deity's designs;
Then took the field-and died.
poem by William Shenstone
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Psalm 71 part 1
v.5-9
C. M.
The aged saint's reflection and hope.
My God, my everlasting hope,
I live upon thy truth;
Thine hands have held my childhood up,
And strengthened all my youth.
My flesh was fashioned by thy power,
With all these limbs of mine;
And from my mother's painful hour,
I've been entirely thine.
Still has my life new wonders seen
Repeated every year;
Behold, my days that yet remain,
I trust them to thy care.
Cast me not off when strength declines,
When hoary hairs arise;
And round me let thy glory shine,
Whene'er thy servant dies.
Then in the hist'ry of my age,
When men review my days,
They'll read thy love in every page,
In every line thy praise.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Resurrection
I thought I had forever lost,
Alas, though still so young,
The tender joys and sorrows all,
That unto youth belong;
The sufferings sweet, the impulses
Our inmost hearts that warm;
Whatever gives this life of ours
Its value and its charm.
What sore laments, what bitter tears
O'er my sad state I shed,
When first I felt from my cold heart
Its gentle pains had fled!
Its throbs I felt no more; my love
Within me seemed to die;
Nor from my frozen, senseless breast
Escaped a single sigh!
I wept o'er my sad, hapless lot;
The life of life seemed lost;
The earth an arid wilderness,
Locked in eternal frost;
The day how dreary, and the night
How dull, and dark, and lone!
The moon for me no brightness had,
No star in heaven shone.
And yet the old love was the cause
Of all the tears I shed;
Still in my inmost breast I felt
The heart was not yet dead.
My weary fancy still would crave
The images it loved,
And its capricious longings still
A source of sorrow proved.
But e'en that lingering spark of grief
Was soon within me spent,
And I the strength no longer had
To utter a lament.
And there I lay, stunned, stupefied,
Nor asked for comfort more;
My heart to hopeless, blank despair
Itself had given o'er.
How changed, alas, was I from him
Who once with passion thrilled,
Whose ardent soul was ever, once,
With sweet illusions filled!
The swallow to my window, still,
Would come, to greet the dawn;
But his sweet song no echo found
In my poor heart, forlorn.
Nor pleased me more, in autumn gray,
Upon the hill-side lone,
The cheerful vesper-bell, or light
Of the departing sun.
In vain the evening star I saw
Above the silent vale,
And vainly warbled in the grove
The plaintive nightingale.
And you, ye furtive glances, bright,
From gentle eyes that rove,
The sweet, the gracious messages
Of first immortal Love;
The soft, white hand, that tenderly
My own hand seemed to woo;
All, all your magic spells were vain,
My torpor to subdue.
Of every pleasure quite bereft,
Sad but of tranquil mien;
A state of perfect littleness,
Yet with a face serene;
Save for the lingering wish, indeed,
In death to sink to rest,
The force of all desire was spent
In my exhausted breast.
As some poor, feeble wanderer,
With age and sorrow bent,
The April of my years, alas,
Thus listlessly I spent;
Thus listlessly, thus wearily,
Didst thou consume, O heart,
Those golden days, ineffable,
So swiftly that depart.
_Who_, from this heavy, heedless rest
Awakens me again?
What new, what magic power is this,
I feel within me reign?
Ye motions sweet, ye images,
Ye throbs, illusions blest,
Ah, no,--ye are not then shut out
Forever from this breast?
The glorious light of golden days
Do ye again unfold?
The old affections that I lost,
Do I once more behold?
Now, as I gaze upon the sky,
Or on the verdant fields,
Each thing with sorrow me inspires,
And each a pleasure yields.
The mountain, forest, and the shore
Once more my heart rejoice;
The fountain speaks to me once more,
The sea hath found a voice.
Who, after all this apathy,
Restores to me my tears?
Each moment, as I look around,
How changed the world appears!
Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart,
Beguiled thee of thy pain?
Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope
I ne'er shall see again.
Nature bestowed these impulses,
And these illusions blest;
Their inborn influence, in me,
By suffering was suppressed;
But not annulled, not overcome
By cruel blows of Fate;
Nor by the inauspicious frown
Of Truth, importunate!
I know she has no sympathy
For fond imaginings;
I know that Nature, too, is deaf,
Nor heeds our sufferings;
That for our _good_ she nothing cares,
Our _being_, only heeds;
And with the sight of our distress
Her wild caprices feeds.
I know the poor man pleads in vain,
For others' sympathy;
That scornfully, or heedlessly,
All from his presence flee;
That both for genius and for worth,
This age has no respect;
That all who cherish lofty aims
Are left to cold neglect.
And you, ye eyes so tremulous
With lustre all divine,
I know how false your splendors are,
Where no true love doth shine.
No love mysterious and profound
Illumes you with its glow;
Nor gleams one spark of genial fire
Beneath that breast of snow.
Nay, it is wont to laugh to scorn
Another's tender pain;
The fervent flame of heavenly love
To treat with cold disdain.
Yet I with thankfulness once more
The old illusions greet,
And feel, with shock of pleased surprise,
The heart within me beat.
To thee alone this force renewed,
This vital power I owe;
From thee alone, my faithful heart,
My only comforts flow.
I feel it is the destiny
Of every noble mind,
In Fate, in Fortune, Beauty, and the World,
An enemy to find:
But while thou liv'st, nor yield'st to Fate,
Contending without fear,
I will not tax with cruelty
The power that placed me here.
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Ode To Despair
FROM THE NOVEL OF EMMELINE.
THOU spectre of terrific mien!
Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye,
In whose fierce train each form is seen
That drives sick Reason to insanity!
I woo thee with unusual prayer,
'Grim visaged, comfortless Despair:'
Approach; in me a willing victim find,
Who seeks thine iron sway--and calls thee kind!
Ah! hide for ever from my sight
The faithless flatterer Hope--whose pencil, gay,
Portrays some vision of delight,
Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;
While in dire contrast, to mine eyes,
Thy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise,
And Memory draws from Pleasure's wither'd flower,
Corrosives for the heart--of fatal power!
I bid the traitor Love adieu!
Who to this fond believing bosom came,
A guest insidious and untrue,
With Pity's soothing voice--in Friendship's name;
The wounds he gave, nor Time shall cure,
Nor Reason teach me to endure.
And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,
Which feels the curse--of meriting its pain.
Yet not to me, tremendous Power!
Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,
With which, in dark conviction's hour,
Thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart;
But of illusion long the sport,
That dreary, tranquil gloom I court,
Where my past errors I may still deplore,
And dream of long-lost happiness no more!
To thee I give this tortured breast,
Where Hope arises but to foster pain;
Ah! lull its agonies to rest!
Ah! let me never be deceived again!
But callous, in thy deep repose,
Behold, in long array, the woes
Of the dread future, calm and undismay'd,
Till I may claim the hope--that shall not fade!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Strephon to Celia
Madam
I hope you'll think it's true
I deeply am in love with you,
When I assure you t'other day,
As I was musing on my way,
At thought of you I tumbled down
Directly in a deadly swoon:
And though 'tis true I'm something better,
Yet I can hardly spell my letter:
And as the latter you may view,
I hope you'll think the former true.
You need not wonder at my flame,
For you are not a mortal dame:
I saw you dropping from the skies;
And let dull idiots swear your eyes
With love their glowing breast inspire,
I tell you they are flames of fire,
That scorch my forehead to a cinder,
And burn my very heart to a tinder.
Your breast so mighty cold, I trow,
Is made of nothing else but snow:
Your hands (no wonder they have charms)
Are made of ivory like your arms.
Your cheeks, that look as if they bled,
Are nothing else but roses red.
Your lips are coral very bright,
Your teeth -- though numbers out of spite
May say they're bones -- yet 'twill appear
They're rows of pearls exceeding rare.
Now, madam, as the chat goes round,
I hear you have ten thousand pound:
But that as I a trifle hold,
Give me your person, dem your gold;
Yet for your own sake 'tis secured,
I hope -- your houses too insured;
I'd have you take a special care,
And of false mortgages beware;
You've wealth enough 'tis true, but yet
You want a friend to manage it.
Now such a friend you soon might have,
By fixing on your humble slave;
Not that I mind a stately house,
Or value money of a louse;
But your five hundred pounds a year,
I would secure it for my dear:
Then smile upon your slave, that lies
Half-murdered by your radiant eyes;
Or else this very moment dies --
Strephon
poem by Mary Leapor
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The Drowned Lover
I.
Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;
Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle,
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
'Stay thy boat on the lake,--dearest Henry, I come.'
II.
High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
'I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.'
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
III.
Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair?
Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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To A Young Lady, Who Was Fond Of Fortune-Telling
You, Madam, may, with safety go
Decrees of destiny to know;
For at your birth kind planets reign'd,
And certain happiness ordain'd:
Such charms as yours are only given
To chosen favourites of Heaven.
But such is my uncertain state
'Tis dangerous to try my fate;
For I would only know from art
The future motions of your hert,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love for years to come,
No secrets else that mortals learn
My cares deserve, or life concern;
But this will so important be
I dread to search the dark decree;
For while the smallest hope remains
Faint joys are mingled with my pains.
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease;
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doom'd my endless wo,
No human force or art could bear
The torment of my wild despair.
This secret then I dare not know,
And other truths are useless now.
What matters if, unbless'd in love,
How long or short my life will prove?
To gratify what low desire
Should I with needless haste inquire,
How great how wealthy I shall be?
Oh, what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy or undone,
It must proceed from you alone.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Stella In Mourning
When lately Stella's form display'd
The beauties of the gay brocade,
The nymphs, who found their power decline,
Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine.
'Fate! snatch away the bright disguise,
And let the goddess trust her eyes.'
Thus blindly pray'd the fretful pair,
And Fate malicious heard the prayer;
But brighten'd by the sable dress,
As virtue rises in distress,
Since Stella still extends her reign,
Ah! how shall envy soothe her pain?
'Th' adoring youth and envious fair,
Henceforth shall form one common prayer
And love and hate alike implore
The skies - 'That Stella mourn no more.'
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Tired Of Me
You say hold on to the reigns
I say let them go tonight
My brain waves
Confused between what is and aint
She cries groundless and free
.
Tired of the water
Tired of the wine
Tired of the future
Tired of time
Tired of the madness
Tired of the steel
Tired of the violence
Tired of me
.
Used steel
Used steel am i
What was pliable in love
Is now hard and crystallized
The intellect is fine
For counting money
And recalling times
That she cried,
Groundless and free
.
Hope is a letter that never arrives
Delivered by the postman of my fear
song performed by by Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Will the Phoenix?
Will Phoenix reincarnate rise, inspire
Incandescence, stirring ashes cold,
Linking lives retold with courage bold,
Leaving shadows for more potent fire
That lights hope's beacon spurning suttee pyre?
Hope based on hope alone’s blown to fools' gold.
Emotions must be shared, not rented, sold.
Prospects rosy which the 'heart's desire'
Has tinted often sink in mirage mire.
Only when courage follows through behold
Energy well channelled to unfold
Nurtured interplay success may sire.
If shared sparks can transform base element
XX XY should thank stars heaven sent...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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