On Dr. Brown's Death
I.
Alas will nothing do,
Nothing arrest the arm of Death
Must learning, sence, nay virtue too,
Must these or. real blessings go
like all things else beneath?
Must these best guifts while here yey shine
Like ye great Stagyrites stars in solid spheres
A common power wth. worthless meteors share
To guild the orbs they're in?
Yes now we find it so since he is gone
In whom enough of goodness shone
T'adorn an age, a second Sodom save
but not himself from the devouring grave
He's gone & that prodigious store
Of piety wch. here he bore
Sat on him onely like the Summers pride
Which crown'd ye ancients victims 'ere they dy'd
II.
He's gon far far on high
Born on ye wings of virtue to his skye
for sure this world was lesse yn. t'other, his,
So much he courted that, so little this,
Besides had he been hers ye earth had mourn'd his loss
In dreadfull heavings & unwonted flows
But silently he stole away
Like some celestial ray
Wch. plays awhile upon ye wings of day
Then soft retiring off ye Air
Do's without troubling nature disappear.
III.
Sure (but avert ye omen fate)
Sure a decay of learning's state,
Is now just now a pressing on
Wn. thus her great good pillar tumbles down
Wn. the light's gone wch. show'd us to advance
Thro ye Ægyptian night of ignorance
For why, why mayn't we fear
'Twill ye same course wth. nature run?
Wch. when ye generall dissolution's near,
Shall see a genuine night Ecclypse her sun.
How well, how too too well does death,
The cause of ignorance maintain,
Robbing her rivalls leader of his breath,
To fix his Tyrant sisters reign.
How too, too well he mocks or. blooming joys
& him & all or. hopes destroys
Him of the tree of life depriving thus
& of the tree of knowledge us
Thus have his arms disabled at a blow
Both learnings Monarch & its empire too
Just so ye Epick muse indites
Ending wth. some great life ye enterprise
Nor longer toyles she ore her pageant fights
The work is ended wn. an Heroe dyes.
IV.
Curst be the Hour, ye Day, ye Year,
Curst ye disease that ravish'd hence or. seer,
Whose sacrilegious dart cou'd show,
That one so good was not immortall too;
Yet wt. alas can this avail?
Why all this mad distemper'd Zeal
As wt it did were the effects of chance,
& not of providence.
No the impatient heavens thought long to want
In their blest choirs so true a saint,
And sent a ministring sickness from above,
his earthy fetters to remove.
It came ye call he knew,
& streight obey'd & streight wthdrew,
Loos'd from ye chains of flesh his freer mind
Rose up to sacred love,
To perfect saint or seraphim refin'd,
Quitting his lump of clay,
As subtle spirits fume away
Loos'd from their earth they upward mount, they flye,
They light, they shine, & blaze along the skye.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On Sr Charles Porter The Chancellours Death
& tis too true alass! we find, he's gonn,
Virtue from earth a second time is flown,
She onely then with her two sisters flew,
But now since he, what ere were good withdrew;
Uncertain where to fix, in him they lost their seat,
& had But Heaven as a sure retreat.
He Held ye scales when Justice Hand did shake:
When He, youd think that wisdomes self did speak.
He was with Honour blest, with Honesty, & praise,
ev'n Blest with all we could desire but dayes:
& those were much too few, for he is gon
(Not for himself but for ye world) too soon.
In him we found, & with him buried lies
What ever poets gave their deity's,
Joves Brow, Minervas learning, Hermes tongue
Apollo's wisdom, yeares, & his still seeming young;
The same sweet temper he to all did shew,
& as his face his mind no wrinkle knew.
He when with foes opprest was still ye same,
Pittying forgave, & smiling overcame.
this glorious sunn, like Heavens, was o're cast
By enymies, as that By clouds opprest,
That keepes his lookes compos'd, & this his breast.
Both do in glory sett, as both in glory reign,
But this for ever, that to rise again.
Perfections here as to their centre flowd,
He was tho great, yet farr from being proud.
Was gentle, liberall, & tho modest free,
Gold has allay, nay ev'ry thing but he.
yet is he tak'n away snatcht hence by heaven
as if it seemd to envy what 't had given.
But when we've such a loss—
How can ye planetts shine ye cloudes not melt to rain
But ev'ry thing their wonted course retain.
Heav'n in our sorrow cannot have a share
We've lost a god on earth 't has got a saint a starr
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On The Death Of Mr Aikman
Oh, could I draw, my friend, thy genuine mind,
Just as the living forms by thee designed;
Of Raphael's figures none should fairer shine,
Nor Titian's colours longer last than mine.
A mind in wisdom old, in lenience young,
From fervent truth where every virtue sprung;
Where all was real, modest, plain, sincere;
Worth above show, and goodness unsevere.
Viewed round and round, as lucid diamonds throw
Still as you turn them a revolving glow,
So did his mind reflect with secret ray,
In various virtues, Heaven's internal day;
Whether in high discourse it soared sublime,
And sprung impatient o'er the bounds of Time,
Or wandering nature through with raptured eye,
Adored the hand that turned yon azure sky;
Whether to social life he bent his thought,
And the right poise of mingling passions sought
Gay converse blessed; or in the thoughtful grove
Bid the heart open every source of love;
New varying lights still set before your eyes
The just, the good, the social, or the wise.
For such a death who can, who would refuse
The friend a tear, a verse the mournful muse?
Yet pay we just acknowledgment to heaven,
Though snatched so soon, that Aikman e'er was given.
A friend, when dead, is but removed from sight,
Hid in the lustre of eternal light;
Oft with the mind he wonted converse keeps
In the lone walk, or when the body sleeps
Lets in a wandering ray, and all elate
Wings and attracts her to another state;
And, when the parting storms of life are o'er,
May yet rejoin him in a happier shore.
As those we love, decay, we die in part,
String after string is severed from the heart;
Till loosened life at last - but breathing clay,
Without one pang, is gald to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,
Dragged lingering on from partial death to death;
And dying, all he can resign is breath.
poem by James Thomson
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Universal Prayer
Father of all! In every age,
In ev'ry clime ador'd,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!
Thou Great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confin'd
To know but this, that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind:
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And, binding Nature fast in Fate,
Left free the human Will.
What Conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do;
This teach me more than Hell to shun,
That more than Heav'n pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives
Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives;
T' enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And teach damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my heart
To find that better way.
Save me alike from foolish Pride
Or impious Discontent,
At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught that goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To right the fault I see:
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean tho' I am, not wholly so,
Since quicken'd by thy breath;
O lead me whereso'er I go,
Thro' this day's life or death!
This day be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun
Though know'st if best bestow'd or not,
And let Thy will be done.
To Thee, whose temple is of Space,
Whose altar earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all Beings raise!
All Nature's incense rise!
poem by Alexander Pope
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God Is The Light
God is the Light
How great the wonders of the heavens
And the timeless beauty of the night
How great then how great the Creator?
And its stars like priceless jewels
Far beyond the reach of kings
Bow down for the shepherd guiding him home.
But how many eyes are closed
To the wonder of this night?
Like pearls, hidden, deep beneath a dark
Stream of desires.
But like dreams vanish with the call to prayer
And the dawn extinguishes night here too are signs.
God is the Light - God is the Light
How great the beauty of the Earth and the creatures
Who dwell on her.
How great then how great the Creator?
As it's mountains pierce the clouds
High about the lives of men
Weeping rivers for thousands of years.
But how many hearts are closed
To the wonders of this sight?
Like birds on a cage, asleep with closed wings
But as work stops with the call to prayer
And the birds recite here too are signs
God is the Light God is the Light
How great the works of man and the things he makes
How great then how great the Creator?
Though he strives to reach the heavens
He can barely survive
The wars of the world he lives in.
Yet, how many times he's tried,
Himself to immortalise?
Like his parents before him in the Garden of Eden
But like the sun sets with the call to prayer
And surrenders to the night here too are signs
God is the Light Everlasting
God is the Light Everlasting
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Invective Written By Mr. George Chapman Against Mr. Ben Jonson
Great, learned, witty Ben, be pleased to light
The world with that three-forked fire; nor fright
All us, thy sublearned, with luciferous boast
That thou art most great, most learn'd, witty most
Of all the kingdom, nay of all the earth;
As being a thing betwixt a human birth
And an infernal; no humanity
Of the divine soul shewing man in thee.
* * * * *
Though thy play genius hang his broken wings
Full of sick feathers, and with forced things,
Imp thy scenes, labour'd and unnatural,
And nothing good comes with thy thrice-vex'd call,
Comest thou not yet, nor yet? O no, nor yet;
Yet are thy learn'd admirers so deep set
In thy preferment above all that cite
The sun in challenge for the heat and light
Of heaven's influences which of you two knew
And have most power in them; Great Ben, 'tis you.
Examine him, some truly-judging spirit,
That pride nor fortune hath to blind his merit,
He match'd with all book-fires, he ever read
His dusk poor candle-rents; his own fat head
With all the learn'd world's, Alexander's flame
That Caesar's conquest cow'd, and stript his fame,
He shames not to give reckoning in with his;
As if the king pardoning his petulancies
Should pay his huge loss too in such a score
As all earth's learned fires he gather'd for.
What think'st thou, just friend? equall'd not this pride
All yet that ever Hell or Heaven defied?
And yet for all this, this club will inflict
His faultful pain, and him enough convict
He only reading show'd; learning, nor wit;
Only Dame Gilian's fire his desk will fit.
But for his shift by fire to save the loss
Of his vast learning, this may prove it gross:
True Muses ever vent breaths mixt with fire
Which, form'd in numbers, they in flames expire
Not only flames kindled with their own bless'd breath
That gave th' unborn life, and eternize death.
Great Ben, I know that this is in thy hand
And how thou fix'd in heaven's fix'd star dost stand
In all men's admirations and command;
For all that can be scribbled 'gainst the sorter
Of thy dead repercussions and reporter.
The kingdom yields not such another man;
Wonder of men he is; the player can
And bookseller prove true, if they could know
Only one drop, that drives in such a flow.
Are they not learned beasts, the better far
Their drossy exhalations a star
Their brainless admirations may render;
For learning in the wise sort is but lender
Of men's prime notion's doctrine; their own way
Of all skills' perceptible forms a key
Forging to wealth, and honour-soothed sense,
Never exploring truth or consequence,
Informing any virtue or good life;
And therefore Player, Bookseller, or Wife
Of either, (needing no such curious key)
All men and things, may know their own rude way.
Imagination and our appetite
Forming our speech no easier than they light
All letterless companions; t' all they know
Here or hereafter that like earth's sons plough
All under-worlds and ever downwards grow,
Nor let your learning think, egregious Ben,
These letterless companions are not men
With all the arts and sciences indued,
If of man's true and worthiest knowledge rude,
Which is to know and be one complete man,
And that not all the swelling ocean
Of arts and sciences, can pour both in:
If that brave skill then when thou didst begin
To study letters, thy great wit had plied,
Freely and only thy disease of pride
In vulgar praise had never bound thy [hide].
poem by George Chapman
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The Ecstasy
The fleeting Joy that all things have beneath
Goes off like snow while Zephirs warmly breath
The happy wish that makes our bliss compleat
it is not wealth it is not to be great
To glide along on pleasures easy floud
Or in fames wreaths to shine above the croud
Weak man who charms in these alone can see
Hear what I ask & learn to ask of me.
Send to my breast Allmighty King send down
A beam of brightness from thy starry throne
Break on my mind drive errors cloud away
& make a calm in passions troubled sea
that the poor banishd Soul serene & free
May rise from earth to visit heav'n & thee.
Come peace Divine shed gently from above
Inspire my willing bosome wondrous love
& lend thy wings & teach me how to move
But Whither whither now? what wondrous fire
With this blest influence equalls my desire?
I rise or love the kind deluder reigns
& acts in fancy such inchanted scenes
The earth retires, the parting skyes give way
& now I view the native realms of day
I mount above the starrs above the sun
& still methinks the spirit bears me on.
O strange enjoyment of a bliss unseen!
O ravishment! o sacred rage within!
Tumultuous pleasure raisd on peace of mind
Which he thats good & onely he can find!
I hear (it must be so) Ime sure I hear
Seraphick musick strike my rapturd ear
I see the light that veiles the throne on high
A light too glorious for the dazzled eye
look how around this great mysterious place
The Angells fly & as they fly they praise
Look how Apostles prophets martyrs Joyn
& all their tongues & all their harps combine
to celebrate the Majesty divine
to please heav'ns King their heav'nly lays are sung
No voice is silent not a harp unstrung
Pure & immortall quire allow me now
Since faign my heart woud pay its tribute too
Allow my Zeal to bear a part wth you
Assist my words and as they move along
With Halelujah's crown the burthend song
Father Eternall, God of truth & light
Great above all beyond expression bright
No bounds thy knowledge none thy powr confine
For powr & knowledge in their source are thine
Around thee Glory spreads her golden wing
Sing Glittering Angells Halelujah sing.
Son of the Father, blest, begotten Son
Ere the short measuring line of time begun
In thee his perfect Essence makes abode
the world has seen thy workes & owns thee God
The world must own thee loves unfathomd spring.
Sing Glittering Angells Halelujah Sing.
Proceeding Spirit, Equally divine
In whom the Godheads true perfections shine
You fill our bosomes with celestiall fire
& tis a bliss to burn when you inspire
O Lord Of Grace for Grace on earth you bring.
sing glittering Angells Halelujah sing
But Ah whats this? & where is all my heat
What interruption makes my Joy retreat
the worlds gott in my meditation crost
& the gay pictures in my fancy lost
How willingly Alas our soules woud rise
& be fixd starrs inserted in the skyes
But our attempts these chains of earth restrain
Deride our toiles & dragg us down again
Thus meteors mounting with the planets vie
But their own bodys sink them in the Sky
When the warmths gon that taught ym how to fly.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On the Death of Mr. Crashaw
Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven,
The hard and rarest union which can be
Next that of godhead with humanity.
Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;
Like Moses thou (though spells and charms withstand)
Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land.
Ah wretched we, poets of earth! but thou
Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now.
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine,
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old.
And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.
Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell,
The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up Hell.
Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian land;
Still idols here like calves at Bethel stand.
And though Pan's death long since all oracles broke,
Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke:
Nay with the worst of heathen dotage we
(Vain men!) the monster Woman deify;
Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,
And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus
Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous!
Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain
That her eternal verse employ'd should be
On a less subject than eternity;
And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take
But her whom God himself scorn'd not his spouse to make.
It (in a kind) her miracle did do;
A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.
How well, blest swan, did fate contrive thy death;
And make thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great mistress' arms! thou most divine
And richest offering of Loretto's shrine!
Where like some holy sacrifice t' expire
A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.
Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chapel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air.
'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they,
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.
Pardon, my Mother Church, if I consent
That angels led him when from thee he went,
For even in error sure no danger is
When join'd with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief,
Ah that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were even weaker yet,
Rather than thus our wills too strong for it.
His faith perhaps in some nice tenents might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee.
Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow
On us, the poets militant below!
Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse chance,
Attack'd by envy, and by ignorance,
Enchain'd by beauty, tortured by desires,
Expos'd by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fires.
Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And like Elijah, mount alive the skies.
Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy greatness, and my littleness)
Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove
So humble to esteem, so good to love)
Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be,
I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me;
And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing,
'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.
poem by Abraham Cowley
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To His Honour The Lieutenant-Governor, On The Death Of His Lady Marc 24, 1773
ALL-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow'r,
Hope's tow'ring plumage falls to rise no more!
Of scenes terrestrial how the glories fly,
Forget their splendors, and submit to die!
Who ere escap'd thee, but the saint * of old
Beyond the flood in sacred annals told,
And the great sage, + whom fiery coursers drew
To heav'n's bright portals from Elisha's view;
Wond'ring he gaz'd at the refulgent car,
Then snatch'd the mantle floating on the air.
From Death these only could exemption boast,
And without dying gain'd th' immortal coast.
Not falling millions sate the tyrant's mind,
Nor can the victor's progress be confin'd.
But cease thy strife with Death, fond Nature, cease:
He leads the virtuous to the realms of peace;
* Enoch. + Elijah.
His to conduct to the immortal plains,
Where heav'n's Supreme in bliss and glory reigns.
There sits, illustrious Sir, thy beauteous spouse;
A gem-blaz'd circle beaming on her brows.
Hail'd with acclaim among the heav'nly choirs,
Her soul new-kindling with seraphic fires,
To notes divine she tunes the vocal strings,
While heav'n's high concave with the music rings.
Virtue's rewards can mortal pencil paint?
No--all descriptive arts, and eloquence are faint;
Nor canst thou, Oliver, assent refuse
To heav'nly tidings from the Afric muse.
As soon may change thy laws, eternal fate,
As the saint miss the glories I relate;
Or her Benevolence forgotten lie,
Which wip'd the trick'ling tear from Misry's eye.
Whene'er the adverse winds were known to blow,
When loss to loss * ensu'd, and woe to woe,
Calm and serene beneath her father's hand
She sat resign'd to the divine command.
No longer then, great Sir, her death deplore,
And let us hear the mournful sigh no more,
Restrain the sorrow streaming from thine eye,
Be all thy future moments crown'd with joy!
Nor let thy wishes be to earth confin'd,
But soaring high pursue th' unbodied mind.
Forgive the muse, forgive th' advent'rous lays,
That fain thy soul to heav'nly scenes would raise.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Psalm VIII: O Lord, Our Lord
O Lord, our Lord, how wondrous great
Is thine exalted name!
The glories of thy heav'nly state
Let men and babes proclaim.
When I behold thy works on high
The moon that rules the night,
And stars that well adorn the sky,
Those moving worlds of light.
Lord, what is man, or all his race,
Who dwells so far below,
That thou should visit him with grace,
And love his nature so?
That thine eternal Son should bear
To take a mortal form;
Made lower than His angels are,
To save a dying worm?
Yet while He lived on earth unknown,
And men would not adore,
The obedient seas and fishes own
His Godhead and his power.
The waves lay spread beneath His feat;
And fish, at his command,
Bring their large shoals to Peter's net,
Bring tribute to his hand.
Those lesser glories of the son
Shone through the fleshly cloud;
Now, we behold Him on His throne,
And men confess Him God.
Let Him be crowned with majesty,
Who bowed His head to death;
And be His honors sounded high,
By all things that have breath.
Jesus, our Lord, how wondrous great
Is thine exalted name!
The glories of thy heavenly state
Let the whole earth proclaim.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Do You Know the Son?
Do you know the Son, the one the Father gave?
Do you know the Son, who can save you from the grave?
The one who's got the crown from the Father up above?
The Word becoming flesh, to show the Father's love?
The Logos who came to Earth and was born but not by man
But by the Holy Spirit sent down by God's own hand.
The Son born in Bethlehem of Judea on that night;
The Son who is the one, whom in John is called the Light.
Yes, He's called the Light, and that's very true
For He came to light the way for men like me and you.
He is also called the Word, and if you did not know
He is the One who made all things so very long ago.
His name is Yeshua, the Christ, and now I'm telling you
Just what it was that God sent Him into the world to do.
God sent His Son to tell us about ourselves you see -
And how that if we did not change, we would end in misery.
He also showed us how to live and to make it ample;
He lived a life without sin; what a great example.
Now Yeshua is the Son of God and on this Earth he dwelt
'til the age of thirty three and, then the pain He felt.
Men on earth did not care about what He had to say;
All they thought of was themselves, so carted Him away.
And on the hill called Calvary, to a stake these men had made
They nailed my Saviour Yeshua the messuah, and there my debt He paid.
And as the blood poured forth from His hands, feet and side
If I then had been there like now I would have cried;
'cause of something else He had also come to say
Which was this that 'By His death He would take my sin away'
So, if you would believe that Yeshua died for you
Then you will also know your sins are forgiven too;
Do you know the Son, the one the Father gave?
The One called Yeshua, the Messiah, who died for you to save?
1 John 5: 20
It is to be noted that the Lord is not the eternal Son of God, but the Son of the eternal God; for there was no Son until he was born of Miriam, and born again at his resurrection, where it was declared to him by his Father, 'You are my Son, this day have I begotten you' this 'begotten' is reference to his resurrection, for he is the 'FIRSTBORN of many brethern' and 'we' at his coming. For we have been born again unto a living hope, that living hope is our LORD YESHUA/JESUS; for as he was raised to life. So too shall we be so raised if we press forward to the prize of the upward call in Messiah Yeshua our Lord, amen.
poem by Richard Merrell
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Revelation
Still, as of old, in Beavor's Vale,
O man of God! our hope and faith
The Elements and Stars assail,
And the awed spirit holds its breath,
Blown over by a wind of death.
Takes Nature thought for such as we,
What place her human atom fills,
The weed-drift of her careless sea,
The mist on her unheeding hills?
What reeks she of our helpless wills?
Strange god of Force, with fear, not love,
Its trembling worshipper! Can prayer
Reach the shut ear of Fate, or move
Unpitying Energy to spare?
What doth the cosmic Vastness care?
In vain to this dread Unconcern
For the All-Father's love we look;
In vain, in quest of it, we turn
The storied leaves of Nature's book,
The prints her rocky tablets took.
I pray for faith, I long to trust;
I listen with my heart, and hear
A Voice without a sound: 'Be just,
Be true, be merciful, revere
The Word within thee: God is near!
'A light to sky and earth unknown
Pales all their lights: a mightier force
Than theirs the powers of Nature own,
And, to its goal as at its source,
His Spirit moves the Universe.
'Believe and trust. Through stars and suns,
Through life and death, through soul and sense,
His wise, paternal purpose runs;
The darkness of His providence
Is star-lit with benign intents.'
O joy supreme! I know the Voice,
Like none beside on earth or sea;
Yea, more, O soul of mine, rejoice,
By all that He requires of me,
I know what God himself must be.
No picture to my aid I call,
I shape no image in my prayer;
I only know in Him is all
Of life, light, beauty, everywhere,
Eternal Goodness here and there!
I know He is, and what He is,
Whose one great purpose is the good
Of all. I rest my soul on His
Immortal Love and Fatherhood;
And trust Him, as His children should.
I fear no more. The clouded face
Of Nature smiles; through all her things
Of time and space and sense I trace
The moving of the Spirit's wings,
And hear the song of hope she sings.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Phoenix
O Blest unfabled Incense Tree,
That burns in glorious Araby,
With red scent chalicing the air,
Till earth-life grow Elysian there!
Half buried to her flaming breast
In this bright tree, she makes her nest,
Hundred sunn'd Phoenix! When she must
Crumble at length to hoary dust!
Her gorgous death-bed! Her rich pyre
Burnt up with aromatic fire!
Her urn, sight high from spoiler men!
Her birthplace when self-born again!
The mountainless green wilds among,
Here ends she her unechoing song!
With amber tears and oderous sighs
Mourn'd by the desert where she dies!
Laid like the young fawn mossily
In sun-green vales of Araby,
I woke hard by the Phoenix tree
That with shadeless boughs flamed over me,
And upward call'd for a dumb cry
With moonbread orbs of wonder I
Beheld the immortal Bird on high
Glassing the great Sun in her eye.
Stedfast she gazed upon his fire,
Still her destroyer and her sire!
As if to his her soul of flame
Had flown already whence it came;
Like those that sit and glare so still,
Intense with their death struggle, till
We touch, and curdle at their chill!
But breathing yet while she doth burn
The deathless Daughter of the Sun!
Slowly to crimson embers turn
The beauties of the brightsome one.
O'er the broad nest her silver wings
Shook down their wasteful glitterings;
Her brinded neck high arch'd in air
Like a small rainbow faded there;
But brighter glow'd her plumy crown
Mouldering to golden ashes down;
With fume of sweet woods, to the skies,
Pure asa Saint's adoring sighs,
Warm as a prayer in Paradise,
Her life-breath rose in sacrifice!
The while with shrill triumphant tone
Sounding aloud, aloft, alone,
Ceaseless her joyful deathwail she
Sang to departing Araby!
poem by George Darley
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Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cole he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Imitation Of Some French Verses
Relentless Time! destroying Pow'r
Whom Stone and Brass obey,
Who giv'st to ev'ry flying Hour
To work some new Decay;
Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy secret Saps prevail,
And ruin Man, a nice Machine
By Nature form'd to fail.
My Change arrives; the Change I meet,
Before I thought it nigh.
My Spring, my Years of Pleasure fleet,
And all their Beauties dye.
In Age I search, and only find
A poor unfruitful Gain,
Grave Wisdom stalking slow behind,
Oppress'd with loads of Pain.
My Ignorance cou'd once beguile,
And fancy'd Joys inspire;
My Errors cherish'd Hope to smile
On newly-born Desire.
But now Experience shews, the Bliss
For which I fondly sought,
Not worth the long impatient Wish,
And Ardour of the Thought.
My Youth met Fortune fair array'd,
(In all her Pomp she shone)
And might, perhaps, have well essay'd
To make her Gifts my own:
But when I saw the Blessings show'r
On some unworthy Mind,
I left the Chace, and own'd the Pow'r
Was justly painted blind.
I pass'd the Glories which adorn
The splendid Courts of Kings,
And while the Persons mov'd my Scorn,
I rose to scorn the Things.
My Manhood felt a vig'rous Fire
By Love encreas'd the more;
But Years with coming Years conspire
To break the Chains I wore.
In Weakness safe, the Sex I see
With idle Lustre shine;
For what are all their Joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine?
But hold—I feel my Gout decrease,
My Troubles laid to rest,
And Truths which wou'd disturb my Peace
Are painful Truths at best.
Vainly the Time I have to roll
In sad Reflection flies;
Ye fondling Passions of my Soul!
Ye sweet Deceits! arise.
I wisely change the Scene within,
To Things that us'd to please;
In Pain, Philosophy is Spleen,
In Health, 'tis only Ease.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Light
Light uncreated shone upon the earth
born within the stable by virgin birth.
Light immortal descending from above
flooding the world with God's 'agape' love.
Light all radiant illuminates the way
dispels all darkness and brightens each day.
Light inextinguishable e'en in death
Cries 'Father forgive' with His dying breath.
Light indestructible bursts from the grave
rising victorious His loved ones to save.
Light all glorious ascending on high
hidden from sight by the clouds in the sky.
Light everlasting will come again
with His great glory and angelic train.
Light eternal will blaze on and on
when all earthlight has darkened and gone.
On Mrs. Johanna Lupton
Her soul, unsetter'd from the bands of clay,
With swift-wing'd haste to heaven takes its way;
She tow'rs the æriel space on wings divine,
While weeping friends surround the bloodless shrine:
The soften'd heart there breathes a tender sigh,
And grief sits pensive in each moisten'd eye:
Suppress the rising tear, and with her sing,
'Death, where's thy vict'ry? Grave, where is thy sting?'
Sing how with God she rests in endless day,
All tears of sorrow ever wip'd away;
'Sing how by tortures heav'n her faith has try'd;
'The saint endur'd it, tho' the woman dy'd!'
Ah, nature will prevail! 'tis all in vain:
Say, sacred muse, what loss do we sustain?
She wip'd the eye of grief---it ceas'd to flow;
Her pitying heart still felt another's woe;
Indigent virtue shar'd her earthly store;
She call'd herself God's steward for the poor:
A duteous child; a faithful, loving wife;
Serene in death, as tranquil was her life:
A pious mother---mother now no more;
Her soft solicitude and cares are o'er:
Sister and friend, each tender name in one.
And is she gone? but heav'n's great will be done!
Like Noah's dove, the wand'rer found no rest,
Till in his ark her Saviour took the guest.
Oh may we meet her on the eternal shore,
Where death shall never separate us more!
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Some Positive Views
Let the sun shine and the wind blow
and may nature all of her glory show.
Let rains fall and give life to parched ground
and may all creatures eat of the food around.
Let the snows gather up on the mountains high
and may the stars shine brightly in the night sky.
Let the waves of the ocean come in and go out
and may the moon be full and lighten all about.
Let the weather be pleasant and not too hot or cold
and may the earth retain for long its youthful mold.
Let everyone be happy and able to make ends meet
and may we not be too greedy unable to share a treat.
Let the world and all it contains reveal the Divine glory
and may all humanity live in harmony and tell the story.
Let mankind prosper and reach out for the stars
and may we remember and heal all of our scars.
Let our knowledge grow and practical wisdom prevail
and may all people benefit from what this does entail.
Let love for one and all abound in various manifest ways
and may people everywhere show kindness in their days.
Let all posterity know that the difficult transition was made
and may the spirit of progress towards perfection never fade.
Let all things be used for those worthy ideals and construction
and may they not contribute to some unfortunate destruction.
Let us all work towards the same universal and common ideal
and may we live in truth, love and beauty and keep them real.
Let’s not forget from where we've come and where we're going
and may all that we think, say and do be of some help bestowing.
Let there be light instead of darkness and so dispel all ignorance
and may there be compassion where there was once indifference.
Let there be some hope and joy instead of gloom and despair
and may the sounds of peace and happiness vibrate in the air.
Let us all have faith in ourselves and also in our fellow man
and may we all live by justice and mercy as best as we can.
Let's not dwell too much on the past or future ignoring what can be done now
and may all that is to eventually happen be to everyone's advantage somehow.
Let us keep in mind what is positive and that which appears right
and may all that we think in our heads be guided by the true light.
Let those who sincerely seek find whatever it is that they really need or be after
and may it be something they'll never regret or cause them to lose their laughter.
Let us all learn by and realize the many errors that we make
and may we succeed in perfecting ourselves for our own sake.
____________________________________ __
poem by George Krokos
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Genesis
In the outer world that was before this earth,
That was before all shape or space was born,
Before the blind first hour of time had birth,
Before night knew the moonlight or the morn;
Yea, before any world had any light,
Or anything called God or man drew breath,
Slowly the strong sides of the heaving night
Moved, and brought forth the strength of life and death.
And the sad shapeless horror increate
That was all things and one thing, without fruit,
Limit, or law; where love was none, nor hate,
Where no leaf came to blossom from no root;
The very darkness that time knew not of,
Nor God laid hand on, nor was man found there,
Ceased, and was cloven in several shapes; above
Light, and night under, and fire, earth, water, and air.
Sunbeams and starbeams, and all coloured things,
All forms and all similitudes began;
And death, the shadow cast by life's wide wings,
And God, the shade cast by the soul of man.
Then between shadow and substance, night and light,
Then between birth and death, and deeds and days,
The illimitable embrace and the amorous fight
That of itself begets, bears, rears, and slays,
The immortal war of mortal things that is
Labour and life and growth and good and ill,
The mild antiphonies that melt and kiss,
The violent symphonies that meet and kill,
All nature of all things began to be.
But chiefliest in the spirit (beast or man,
Planet of heaven or blossom of earth or sea)
The divine contraries of life began.
For the great labour of growth, being many, is one;
One thing the white death and the ruddy birth;
The invisible air and the all-beholden sun,
And barren water and many-childed earth.
And these things are made manifest in men
From the beginning forth unto this day:
Time writes and life records them, and again
Death seals them lest the record pass away.
For if death were not, then should growth not be,
Change, nor the life of good nor evil things;
Nor were there night at all nor light to see,
Nor water of sweet nor water of bitter springs.
For in each man and each year that is born
Are sown the twin seeds of the strong twin powers;
The white seed of the fruitful helpful morn,
The black seed of the barren hurtful hours.
And he that of the black seed eateth fruit,
To him the savour as honey shall be sweet;
And he in whom the white seed hath struck root,
He shall have sorrow and trouble and tears for meat.
And him whose lips the sweet fruit hath made red
In the end men loathe and make his name a rod;
And him whose mouth on the unsweet fruit hath fed
In the end men follow and know for very God.
And of these twain, the black seed and the white,
All things come forth, endured of men and done;
And still the day is great with child of night,
And still the black night labours with the sun.
And each man and each year that lives on earth
Turns hither or thither, and hence or thence is fed;
And as a man before was from his birth,
So shall a man be after among the dead.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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To Dr. Sherlock, On His Practical Discourse Concerning Death
Forgive the muse who, in unhallow'd strains,
The saint one moment from his God detains;
For sure whate'er you do, where'er you are,
'Tis all but one good work, one constant prayer.
Forgive her; and entreat that God to whom
Thy favour'd vows with kind acceptance come,
To raise her notes to that sublime degree
Which suits a song of piety and thee.
Wondrous good man! whose labours may repel
The force of sin, may stop the rage of hell;
Thou, like the Baptist, from thy God was sent,
The crying voice to bid the world repent.
Thee youth shall study, and no more engage
Their flattering wishes for uncertain age,
No more with fruitless care and cheated strife
Chase fleeting pleasure through this maze of life;
Finding the wretched all they there can have
But present food, and but a future grave;
Each, great as Philip's victor son, shall view
This abject world, and weeping ask a new.
Decrepit age shall read thee, and confess
Thy labours can assuage where med'cines cease;
Shall bless thy words, their wounded soul's relief,
The drops that sweeten their last dregs of life:
Shall look to heaven, and laugh at all beneath,
Own riches gather'd trouble, fame a breath,
And life an ill whose only cure is death.
Thy even thoughts with so much plainness flow,
Their sense untutor'd infancy may know;
Yet to such height is all that plainness wrought,
Wit may admire, and letter'd pride be taught.
Easy in words thy style, in sense sublime,
On its blest steps each age and sex may rise;
'Tis like the ladder in the Patriarch's dream,
Its foot on earth, its height above the skies.
Diffused its virtue, boundless is its power;
'Tis public health, and universal cure:
Of heavenly manna 'tis a second feast,
A nation's food, and all to every taste.
To its last height mad Britain's guilt was rear'd,
And various death for various crimes she fear'd:
With your kind work her drooping hopes revive;
You bid her read, repent, adore, and live,
You wrest the bolt from Heaven's avenging hand,
Stop ready death, and save a sinking land.
O! save us still; still bless us with thy stay:
O! want thy heaven till we have learn'd the way:
Refuse to leave thy destined charge too soon,
And for the church's good defer thy own.
O! live, and let thy works urge our belief;
Live to explain thy doctrine by thy life;
Till future infancy, baptized by thee,
Grow ripe in years, and old in piety;
Till christians yet unborn be taught to die.
Then in full age and hoary holiness
Retire, great teacher, to thy promised bliss;
Untouch'd thy tomb, uninjured be thy dust,
As thy own fame among the future just,
Till in last sounds, the dreadful trumpet speaks;
Till judgement calls, and quicken'd nature wakes;
Till through the utmost earth and deepest sea
Our scatter'd atoms find their destined way,
In haste to clothe their kindred souls again,
Perfect our state, and build immortal man:
Then fearless thou, who well sustain'dst the fight,
To paths of joy and tracks of endless light,
Lead up all those who heard thee and believed;
'Midst thy own flock, great shepherd, be received
And glad all heaven with millions thou hast saved.
poem by Matthew Prior
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School Rhymes
O academic muse that hast for long
Charmed all the world with thy disciples’ song,
As myrtle bushes must give place to trees,
Our humbler strains can now no longer please.
Look down for once, inspire me in these lays.
In lofty verse to sing our Rector's praise.
The mighty wheel of Time to light has rolled
That golden age by ancient bards foretold.
Minerva now descends upon our land,
And scatters knowledge with unsparing hand;
Long since Ulysses saw the heavenly maid,
In Mentor's form and Mentor’s dress arrayed,
But now to Cambrian lands the goddess flies,
And drops in Williams’ form from out the skies;
And as at dawn the brilliant orb of light,
With his bright beams dispels the gloomy night,
So sunk in ignorance our land he finds,
But with his learning drives it from our minds,
And he, a hero, shall with joyful eyes
See crowds of heroes all around him rise;
With great Minerva's wisdom he shall rule
Those boisterous youths—the rector's class at school,
And when in the fifth class begins his power,
And he begins to teach us, from that hour
Dame Poetry begins to show her face,
And witty epigrams the plaster grace;
There growing wild are often to be seen
The names of boys that Duxes erst have been,
And at the chimney-piece is seen the same
All thickly scribbled with the boobie's name.
· · · · ·
Ne’er shall the dreadful tawse be heard again,
The lash resounding, and the cry of pain;
Carmichael's self will change (O that he would!)
From the imperative to wishing mood;
Ye years roll on, and haste the expected time
When flogging boys shall be accounted crime.
But come, thy real nature let us see,
No more the rector but the goddess be,
Come in thy might and shake the deep profound,
Let the Academy with shouts resound,
While radiant glory all thy head adorns,
And slippers on thy feet protect thy corns;
O may I live so long on earth below,
That I may learn the things that thou dost know!
Then will I praise thee in heroic verse
So good that Linus’ will be counted worse;
The Thracian Orpheus never will compare
With me, nor Dods that got the prize last year.
But stay, O stay upon this earth a while,
Even now thou seest the world's approving smile,
And when thou goest to taste celestial joys,
Let thy great nephew teach the mourning boys,
Then mounting to the skies upon the wind,
Lead captive ignorance in chains behind.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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