The Judgement Of The Poets
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possessed,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,
Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete,
Had both alike been mild;
But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frowned oftener than she smiled.
And in her humour, when she frowned,
Would raise her voice and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.
The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last,
And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in song
The nymphs referred the cause,
Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong,
And gave misplaced applause.
They gentle called, and kind and soft,
The flippant and the scold,
And though she changed her mood so oft,
That failing left untold.
No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,
Or so resolved to err,--
In short, the charms her sister had
They lavished all on her.
Then thus the God whom fondly they
Their great Inspirer call,
Was heard, one genial summer's day,
To reprimand them all.
'Since thus ye have combined,' he said,
'My favourite nymph to slight,
Adorning May, that peevish maid,
With June's undoubted right,
'The minx shall, for your folly's sake,
Still prove herself a shrew,
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,
And pinch your noses blue.'
poem by William Cowper
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Related quotes
Hidden Charms
Her lips are sweet
Her legs are big
Her looks can make you
Dance the jig
Her touch is so soft
Her heart is so warm
What knocks me out
Is your hidden charms
Her voice is so soft
Her love is so true
I think about her
Thats all I do
Shes weak and wanton
In my arms
What moves me darling
Is your hidden charms
When I hold you
In my arms
Brings out all of your
Hidden charms
Her kiss is so pure
As the morning dew
A real gone love
Is exciting too
Her eyes that talk
They say cmon
What kills me baby
Is your hidden charms
When I hold you
In my arms
Brings out all of your
Hidden charms
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Are Sounds of Mirth
There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.
And, see -- the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard,whom not the world in arms,
Could bend to tyranny's rude countroul,
Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And -- their laughing eyes, the while, concealing --
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race,
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Nancy of the Vale
The western sky was purpled o'er
With every pleasing ray;
And flocks reviving felt no more
The sultry heats of day;
When from an hazel's artless bower
Soft warbled Strephon's tongue;
He blest the scene, he blest the hour,
While Nancy's praise he sung.
'Let fops with fickle falsehood range
The paths of wanton love,
While weeping maids lament their change,
And sadden every grove:
'But endless blessings crown the day
I saw fair Esham's dale!
And every blessing find its way
To Nancy of the Vale.
''Twas from Avona's banks the maid
Diffused her lovely beams,
And every shining glance display'd
The Naiad of the streams.
'Soft as the wild-duck's tender young,
That float on Avon's tide;
Bright as the water-lily, sprung,
And glittering near its side
'Fresh as the bordering flowers her bloom,
Her eye all mild to view;
The little halcyon's azure plume
Was never half so blue.
'Her shape was like the reed so sleek,
So taper, strait, and fair;
Her dimpled smile, her blushing cheek,
How charming sweet they were!
'Far in the winding vale retired,
This peerless bud I found,
And shadowing rocks and woods conspired
To fence her beauties round.
'That Nature in so lone a dell
Should form a nymph so sweet!
Or Fortune to her secret cell
Conduct my wandering feet!
'Gay lordlings sought her for their bride,
But she would ne'er incline:
'Prove to your equals true,' she cried,
'As I will prove to mine.
''Tis Strephon, on the mountain's brow,
Has won my right good will;
To him I gave my plighted vow,
With him I'll climb the hill.'
'Struck with her charms and gentle truth,
I clasp'd the constant fair;
To her alone I gave my youth,
And vow my future care.
'And when this vow shall faithless prove,
Or I those charms forego;
The stream that saw our tender love,
That stream shall cease to flow.'
poem by William Shenstone
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An Ode To Mr. Howard
Dear Howard, from the soft assaults of love
Poets and painters never are secure;
Can I untouch'd the fair one's passions move,
Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its power?
To great Appelles when young Ammon brought
The darling idol of his captive heart;
And the pleased nymph with kind attention sat,
To have her charms recorded by his art:
The amorous master own'd her potent eyes:
Sigh'd when he look'd, and trembled as he drew:
Each flowing line confirm'd his first surprise,
And, as the piece advanced, the passion grew.
While Philip's son, while Venus' son, was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel?
Great was the rival, and the god severe:
Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal.
The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms,
With pity saw the ill-conceal'd distress;
Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms,
And gave the fair one to the friend's embrace.
Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee,
Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art:
But happy thou, from Cupid's arrow free,
And flames that pierced thy predecessor's heart!
Had thy poor breast received an equal pain;
Had I been vested with the monarch's power;
Thou must have sigh'd, unlucky youth, in vain;
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure.
Though, to convince thee that the friend did feel
A kind concern for thy ill-fated care,
I would have sooth'd thy flame I could not heal;
Given thee the world; though I withheld the fair.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Hymn To Venus
O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles;
O goddess, from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.
If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferred,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
A gentle goddess, hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confessed.
Thou once didst leave almighty Jove
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they winged their way
I saw their quivering pinions play.
The birds dismissed (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again:
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And asked what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid?
What frenzy in my bosom raged,
And by what cure to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?
Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freezes, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.
Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore.
In pity come, and ease my grief,
Bring my distempered soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.
Pallas And Venus. An Epigram
The Trojan swain had judged the great dispute,
And beauty's power obtain'd the golden fruit,
When Venus, loose in all her naked charms,
Met Jove's great daughter clad in shining arms,
The wanton goddess view'd the warlike maid
From head to foot, and tauntingly she said;
Yield sister; rival, yield: naked, you see,
I vanquish: guess how potent I should be,
If to the field I came in armour dress'd,
Dreadful like thine my shield, and terrible my crest!
The warrior goddess with disdain replied,
Thy folly, child, is equal to thy pride:
Let a brave enemy for once advise,
And Venus (if 'tis possible) be wise:
Thou to be strong must put off every dress;
Thy only armour is thy nakedness;
And more than once (or thou art much belied)
By Mars himself that armour has been tried.
poem by Matthew Prior
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In the Workshop
ONCE in the Workshop, ages ago,
The clay was wet and the fire was low.
And He who was bent on fashioning man
Moulded a shape from a clod,
And put the loyal heart therein;
While another stood watching by.
‘What’s that?' said Beelzebub.
‘A lover,’ said God.
And Beelzebub frowned, for he knew that kind.
And then God fashioned a fellow shape
As lithe as a willow rod,
And gave it the merry roving eye
And the range of the open road.
‘What’s that?' said Beelzebub.
‘A vagrant,’ said God.
And Beelzebub smiled, for he knew that kind.
And last of all God fashioned a form,
And gave it, what was odd,
The loyal heart, and the roving eye;
And he whistled, light of care.
‘What’s that?' said Beelzebub.
‘A poet,’ said God.
And Beelzebub frowned, for he did not know.
poem by Bliss Carman
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Braving The British Weather
To brave the British weather, most birds don't have a choice,
But even in the worst weather, they raise such a spirited voice.
Cold and rainy weather can leave some of us feeling a little blue,
But, to me, it seems the little birds hold a different kind of view.
When, to us, the weather seems to go so very, horribly wrong,
The little birds continue to sing their sweet and happy song.
When a cloudless, blue sky still seems so very far from sight,
There is one song which will always ring out, so clear and bright.
When you find yourself walking along, upon rain-soaked ground,
From up in the trees, there will always come a heart-lifting sound.
A dull and dismal day can sometimes make us feel a little bit down:
Our hearts feel a little heavy, and our faces wear an unhappy frown.
Birdsong is a beautiful and pure, but powerful, Heaven-sent gift:
Upon hearing such a pleasant song, our hearts will begin to lift.
Even in wet weather, the little birds sing out with such pure joy:
Like the joy a child has, when hugging their favourite soft toy.
Even when we get wet through, our clothes will very soon dry,
So we should try to keep our chin up, and our spirits flying high.
Such joy is contained within the heart of a creature, so very small:
These tiny little birds really do set a shining example to us all.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Don't Tamper With Them
stop! ! Let roll to the start
They are a young gentle nymphs
They trade their time for knowledge heart
As each day roll by, they gave their book a learning flips
Each passing years they made their family cheer
And each was written in their area story
In each paper they made their answers clear
For these they always sleep on glory
Now this is where we are
Before a voice called to stop
We were talking about a sister and daughter
Who had determined to take a seat up
They had on their back selfish desires chasing
On their front a giant future to unlocked
Please boys and men their dreams are resulting
If you tends to tamper with them it'll be blocked
They were carved in absolute purity
They are any country's gem
Gentlemen prove your morality
Don't tamper with them
poem by Kemurl Fofanah
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Ode To Neptune
On Mrs. W-----'s Voyage to England.
I.
WHILE raging tempests shake the shore,
While AElus' thunders round us roar,
And sweep impetuous o'er the plain
Be still, O tyrant of the main;
Nor let thy brow contracted frowns betray,
While my Susanna skims the wat'ry way.
II.
The Pow'r propitious hears the lay,
The blue-ey'd daughters of the sea
With sweeter cadence glide along,
And Thames responsive joins the song.
Pleas'd with their notes Sol sheds benign his ray,
And double radiance decks the face of day.
III.
To court thee to Britannia's arms
Serene the climes and mild the sky,
Her region boasts unnumber'd charms,
Thy welcome smiles in ev'ry eye.
Thy promise, Neptune keep, record my pray'r,
Not give my wishes to the empty air.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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The Rose-Bud
'See, Daphne, see!' Florelio cried,
'And learn the sad effects of pride;
Yon shelter'd rose, how safe conceal'd!
How quickly blasted when reveal'd!
'The sun with warm attractive rays
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze;
A gale succeeds from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.
'So you, my Fair! of charms divine,
Will quit the plains, too fond to shine
Where Fame's transporting rays allure,
Though here more happy, more secure.
'The breath of some neglected maid
Shall make you sigh you left the shade;
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,
As, to the rose, an eastern wind.'
The nymph replied!-'You first, my Swain!
Confine your sonnets to the plain;
One envious tongue alike disarms
You of your wit, me of my charms.
'What is, unknown, the poet's skill?
Or what, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
What, unadmired, a charming mien?
Or what the rose's blush unseen?'
poem by William Shenstone
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The Garland
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past,
She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eyes she cast.
That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear
As any Muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humour; pr'ythee tell,
That falling tear - what does it mean?
She sigh'd, she smiled; and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said,
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made.
Ah me! the blooming pride of May
And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud.
Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Ode to Karen and the Summer
June wore her green dress, long her favorite color
the color of her ancient Roman clan
Roman Green
June wore her green dress...as my finger traced a soft essay
upon your perfect back
June wore green
Karen wore blonde
and all around us was light
the solstice was the turning point- solstice curve
poignant as the course of the sun through our summer bodies
the season of the short-lived beings
dead through the dry folds of winter
to flood to life in green vigor
I'm green as a frog, green as any new bug rushing or Mayfly lingering
June's nephews, July and August, were lulled to boredom
by wine and soft days
and left us the blessing
to wallop and play in the gardens
Karen on a summer sidewalk
or a tv show
or a dream in the light
or green eyes
poem by Jimi Doyle
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Sonnet XXVIII. To Friendship
THOU! whose name too often is profaned;
Whose charms celestial, few have hearts to feel;
Unknown to Folly--and by Pride disdain'd!
--To thy soft solace may my sorrows steal!
Like the fair moon, thy mild and genuine ray
Through life's long evening shall unclouded last;
While pleasure's frail attachments fleet away,
As fades the rainbow from the northern blast!
'Tis thine, O Nymph! with 'balmy hands to bind'
The wounds inflicted in misfortune's storm,
And blunt severe affliction's sharpest dart!
--'Tis thy pure spirit warms my Anna's mind,
Beams through the pensive softness of her form,
And holds its altar--on her spotless heart!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Licia Sonnets 01
Bright matchless star, the honour of the sky,
From whose clear shine heaven's vault hath all his light,
I send these poems to your graceful eye;
Do you but take them, and they have their right.
I build besides a temple to your name,
Wherein my thoughts shall daily sing your praise;
And will erect an altar for the same,
Which shall your virtues and your honour raise.
But heaven the temple of your honour is,
Whose brasen tops your worthy self made proud;
The ground an altar, base for such a bliss
With pity torn, because I sighed so loud.
And since my skill no worship can impart,
Make you an incense of my loving heart.
Sad, all alone, not long I musing sat,
But that my thoughts compelled me to aspire;
A laurel garland in my hand I gat,
So the Muses I approached the nigher.
My suit was this, a poet to become,
To drink with them, and from the heavens be fed.
Phoebus denied, and sware there was no room,
Such to be poets as fond fancy led.
With that I mourned and sat me down to weep;
Venus she smiled, and smiling to me said,
Come drink with me, and sit thee still, and sleep.
This voice I heard; and Venus I obeyed.
That poison sweet hath done me all this wrong,
For now of love must needs be all my song.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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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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Ode, Written On The Opening Of The Last Campaign
Spring! thy impatient bloom restrain,
Nor wake so soon thy genial pow'r,
For, deeds of death must hail thy reign,
And clouds of fate around thee low'r.
Alas! not all thy store of charms
For patriot hearts can comfort find,
Or lull to peace the dread alarms
Which rack the friends of human kind.
In vain thy balmy breath to me
Scents with its sweets the ev'ning gale;
In vain the violet's charms I see,
Or fondly mark thy primrose pale.
To me thy softest zephyrs breathe,
Of sorrow's soul-distracting tone,
To me thy most attractive wreath
Seems ting'd with human blood alone.
Arrest thy steps, thou source of love,
Thou genial friend of joy and life
Let not thy smile propitious prove
To works of carnage, scenes of strife.
Bid Winter all his frowns recall,
And back his icy footsteps trace;
Again the soil in frost inthrall,
And check the War-fiend's murd'rous chace.
Ah, fruitless pray'r! thy hand divine
MUST on the teeming season lead,
And (contrast dire!) at War's red shrine
Must bid unnumber'd victims bleed.
But not in vain—if on this hour
The fate of Freedom shall depend—
If o'er this earth th' Eternal Pow'r
The scale of Justice now extend.
For then, O Spring, thy sun shall see
The patriot flame triumphant shine;
GALLIA shall bid the world be free,
And WAR his blood-stain'd throne resign!
poem by Amelia Opie
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The Beautiful Lady Of The May
I.
A quire of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To choose a May-lady to govern the year;
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green,
The garland was given, and Phillis was queen;
But Phillis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
II.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banished, and Love is no more:
The soft god of pleasure that warmed our desires
Has broken his bow, and extinguished his fires,
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
III.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more,
For we will perform what the Deity swore:
But, if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms;
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan and his son and fair Syrinx return.
poem by John Dryden
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Water-Lillies
Unwedded from the world, I stray through trees
To where a pool lies mirrored in the sun
A disk of polished gold that I have won
With labours not unknown to Hercules.
Slender they bathe, all naked as a breeze,
Their nipples hollow and their hair undone,
While from their widespread thighs cool ripples run
To rock the water-lilies round their knees.
Nymphs of the fountains, naiads innocent,
Frail sunbeams who have passed between my arms
So beautiful in your imprisonment,
Fill now my soul with symbols of delight:
Soft voices and soft fingers and soft charms
And the perfume of the lotus in the night.
poem by Harry Crosby
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To Promise Is One Thing To Keep It, Another
JOHN courts Perrette; but all in vain;
Love's sweetest oaths, and tears, and sighs
All potent spells her heart to gain
The ardent lover vainly tries:
Fruitless his arts to make her waver,
She will not grant the smallest favour:
A ruse our youth resolved to try
The cruel air to mollify:--
Holding his fingers ten outspread
To Perrette's gaze, and with no dread
"So often," said he, "can I prove,
"My sweet Perrette, how warm my love."
When lover's last avowals fail
To melt the maiden's coy suspicions
A lover's sign will oft prevail
To win the way to soft concessions:
Half won she takes the tempting bait;
Smiles on him, draws her lover nearer,
With heart no longer obdurate
She teaches him no more to fear her-
A pinch,--a kiss,--a kindling eye,--
Her melting glances,--nothing said.--
John ceases not his suit to ply
Till his first finger's debt is paid.
A second, third and fourth he gains,
Takes breath, and e'en a fifth maintains.
But who could long such contest wage?
Not I, although of fitting age,
Nor John himself, for here he stopped,
And further effort sudden dropped.
Perrette, whose appetite increased
just as her lover's vigour ceased,
In her fond reckoning defeated,
Considered she was greatly cheated--
If duty, well discharged, such blame
Deserve; for many a highborn dame
Would be content with such deceit.
But Perrette, as already told,
Out of her count, began to scold
And call poor John an arrant cheat
For promising and not performing.
John calmly listened to her storming,
And well content with work well done,
Thinking his laurels fairly won,
Cooly replied, on taking leave:
"No cause I see to fume and grieve;
"Or for such trifle to dispute;
"To promise and to execute
"Are not the same, be it confessed,
"Suffice it to have done one's best;
"With time I'll yet discharge what's due;
"Meanwhile, my sweet Perrette, adieu!"
poem by La Fontaine
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