Alas! What Boots The Long Laborious Quest
ALAS! what boots the long laborious quest
Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill;
Or pains abstruse-to elevate the will,
And lead us on to that transcendent rest
Where every passion shall the sway attest
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill;
What is it but a vain and curious skill,
If sapient Germany must lie deprest,
Beneath the brutal sword?-Her haughty Schools
Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say-
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules,
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought
More for mankind at this unhappy day
Then all the pride of intellect and thought?
poem by William Wordsworth
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Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 X. Rob Roy’s Grave .
A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;
She has her brave ROB ROY!
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing stave,
In honour of that Hero brave!
Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.
Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong;--
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.
Say, then, that he was 'wise' as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
'He' sought his moral creed.
Said generous Rob, 'What need of books?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our kind;
And worse, against ourselves.
'We have a passion--make a law,
Too false to guide us or control!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.
'And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few:
These find I graven on my heart:
'That' tells me what to do.
'The creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.
'For why?--because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take, who have the power,
And they should keep who can.
'A lesson that is quickly learned,
A signal this which all can see!
Thus nothing here provokes the strong
To wanton cruelty.
'All freakishness of mind is checked;
He tamed, who foolishly aspires;
While to the measure of his might
Each fashions his desires.
'All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit:
'Tis God's appointment who must sway,
And who is to submit.
'Since, then, the rule of right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;
To have my ends, maintain my rights,
I'll take the shortest way.'
And thus among these rocks he lived,
Through summer heat and winter snow:
The Eagle, he was lord above,
And Rob was lord below.
So was it--'would', at least, have been
But through untowardness of fate;
For Polity was then too strong--
He came an age too late;
Or shall we say an age too soon?
For, were the bold Man living 'now',
How might he flourish in his pride,
With buds on every bough!
Then rents and factors, rights of chase,
Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains,
Would all have seemed but paltry things,
Not worth a moment's pains.
Rob Roy had never lingered here,
To these few meagre Vales confined;
But thought how wide the world, the times
How fairly to his mind!
And to his Sword he would have said,
Do Thou my sovereign will enact
From land to land through half the earth!
Judge thou of law and fact!
''Tis fit that we should do our part,
Becoming, that mankind should learn
That we are not to be surpassed
In fatherly concern.
'Of old things all are over old,
Of good things none are good enough:--
We'll show that we can help to frame
A world of other stuff.
'I, too, will have my kings that take
From me the sign of life and death:
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
Obedient to my breath.'
And, if the word had been fulfilled,
As 'might' have been, then, thought of joy!
France would have had her present Boast,
And we our own Rob Roy!
Oh! say not so; compare them not;
I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all
Here standing by thy grave.
For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!
Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
The 'liberty' of man.
And, had it been thy lot to live
With us who now behold the light,
Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself,
And battled for the Right.
For thou wert still the poor man's stay,
The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;
And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,
Had thine at their command.
Bear witness many a pensive sigh
Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
Alone upon Loch Veol's heights,
And by Loch Lomond's braes!
And, far and near, through vale and hill,
Are faces that attest the same;
The proud heart flashing through the eyes,
At sound of ROB ROY'S name.
poem by William Wordsworth
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From Boethius: De Consolatione Philosophiae; Book III. Metre 5
The man who pants for ample sway,
Must bid his passions all obey;
Must bid each wild desire be still,
Nor yoke his reason with his will:
For though beneath thy haughty brow
Warm India's supple sons should bow,
Though northern climes confess thy sway,
Which erst in frost and freedom lay,
If Sorrow pine, or Avarice crave,
Bow down and own thyself a slave.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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On The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese
IT was a 'moral' end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been 'vainly' sought;
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
We know that ye, beneath the stern control
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul:
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes,
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Ambition
I had ambition once. Like Solomon
I asked for wisdom, deeming wisdom fair,
And with much pains a little knowledge won
Of Nature's cruelty and Man's despair,
And mostly learned how vain such learnings were.
Then in my grief I turned to happiness,
And woman's love awhile was all my care,
And I achieved some sorrow and some bliss,
Till love rebelled. Then the mad lust of power
Became my dream, to rule my fellow--men;
And I too lorded it my little hour,
And wrought for weal or woe with sword and pen,
And wounded many, some, alas, my friends.
Now I ask silence. My ambition ends.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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God
Multiple magic, myriad isms, sundry deities
Complexity, perplexity
Sobriety, pity, piety
Unmet entreaty, relentless activity
Quest, search, quest, search
The Abstract abstruse..
Peremptorily'O'God'
She, He, It
Name this and that
As you like
Believe mystical or rational
Believe not-be it your personal
Simply the abstract Absolute
Generates, operates, destroys
Quest, search, quest, search
The Abstract abstruse..
Peremptorily'O'God'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Psalm 145 part 3
v.14,17ff
C. M.
Mercy to sufferers; or, God hearing prayer.
Let every tongue thy goodness speak,
Thou sovereign Lord of all;
Thy strength'ning hands uphold the weak,
And raise the poor that fall.
When sorrow bows the spirit down,
Or virtue lies distressed
Beneath some proud oppressor's frown,
Thou giv'st the mourners rest.
The Lord supports our tott'ring days,
And guides our giddy youth;
Holy and just are all his ways,
And all his words are truth.
He knows the pains his servants feel,
He hears his children cry,
And their best wishes to fulfil,
His grace is ever nigh.
His mercy never shall remove
From men of heart sincere;
He saves the souls whose humble love
Is joined with holy fear.
[His stubborn foes his sword shall slay,
And pierce their hearts with pain
But none that serve the Lord shall say,
"They sought his aid in vain."]
[My lips shall dwell upon his praise,
And spread his fame abroad;
Let all the sons of Adam raise
The honors of their God.]
poem by Isaac Watts
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Italia
ITALIA! thou art fallen, though with sheen
Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
Because rich gold in every town is seen,
And on thy sapphire lake in tossing pride
Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!
Look southward where Rome's desecrated town
Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?
Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The wheels on the bus
‘The wheels on the bus
Go round and round
Round and round
Round and round
The wheels on the bus
Go round and round
Round and round
Round and round
All night long’
The driver on the bus goes
Rush rush rush
Rush rush rush
Rush rush rush
The driver on the bus goes
Rush rush rush
Rush rush rush
Rush rush rush
All night long
The children on the bus go
Wow wow wow
Wow wow wow
Wow wow wow
The children on the bus go
Wow wow wow
Wow wow wow
Wow wow wow
All night long
The fathers on the bus go
Blush blush blush
Blush blush blush
Blush blush blush
The fathers on the bus go
Blush blush blush
Blush blush blush
Blush blush blush
All night long
The mothers on the bus go
Hush hush shus
Hush hus hush
Hush hush
The mothers on the bus go
Hush hush hush
All night long
The clouds in the sky go
Sky sky sky
Sky sky sky
Sky sky sky
The ashes from the ground go
Die die die
Die die die
Die die die
All night long
Shakiras on the bus go
Waka waka hey
Waka waka hey
Waka waka hey
The boughs in the tree go
Waka waka sway
Waka waka sway
Waka waka sway
All night long
PS:
The wheels on the bus – children’s song (anonymous?)
Waka waka World’s current top hit on VH1 music channel
August 17,2010
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Unexpressed
DEEP in my heart that aches with the repression,
And strives with plenitude of bitter pain,
There lives a thought that clamors for expression,
And spends its undelivered force in vain.
What boots it that some other may have thought it?
The right of thoughts' expression is divine;
The price of pain I pay for it has bought it,
I care not who lays claim to it — 't is mine!
And yet not mine until it be delivered;
The manner of its birth shall prove the test.
Alas, alas, my rock of pride is shivered —
I beat my brow — the thought still unexpressed.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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To Sunnydale
There lies the trail to Sunnydale,
Amid the lure of laughter.
Oh, how can we unhappy be
Beneath its leafy rafter!
Each perfect hour is like a flower,
Each day is like a posy.
How can you say the skies are grey?
You're wrong, my friend, they're rosy.
With right good will let's climb the hill,
And leave behind all sorrow.
Oh, we'll be gay! a bright to-day
Will make a bright to-morrow.
Oh, we'll be strong! the way is long
That never has a turning;
The hill is high, but there's the sky,
And how the West is burning!
And if through chance of circumstance
We have to go bare-foot, sir,
We'll not repine -- a friend of mine
Has got no feet to boot, sir.
This Happiness a habit is,
And Life is what we make it:
See! there's the trail to Sunnydale!
Up, friend! and let us take it.
poem by Robert William Service
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Two Little Boots
TWO little boots all rough an' wo',
Two little boots!
Laws, I's kissed 'em times befo',
Dese little boots!
Seems de toes a-peepin' thoo
Dis hyeah hole an' sayin' 'Boo!'
Evah time dey looks at you —
Dese little boots.
Membah de time he put 'em on,
Dese little boots;
Riz an' called fu' 'em by dawn,
Dese little boots;
Den he tromped de livelong day,
Laffin' in his happy way,
Evaht'ing he had to say,
'My little boots!'
Kickin' de san' de whole day long,
Dem little boots;
Good de cobblah made 'em strong,
Dem little boots!
Rocks was fu' dat baby's use,
I'on had to stan' abuse
W'en you tu'ned dese champeens loose
Dese little boots!
Ust to make de ol' cat cry,
Dese little boots;
Den you walked it mighty high,
Proud little boots!
Ahms akimbo, stan'in' wide,
Eyes a-sayin' 'Dis is pride!'
Den de manny-baby stride!
You little boots.
Somehow, you don' seem so gay,
Po' little boots,
Sence yo' ownah went erway,
Po' little boots!
Yo' bright tops don' look so red,
Dese brass tips is dull an' dead;
'Goo'-by,' whut de baby said;
Deah little boots!
Ain't you kin' o' sad yo'se'f,
You little boots?
Dis is all his mammy's lef',
Two little boots.
Sence huh baby gone an' died,
Heav'n itse'f hit seem to hide
Des a little bit inside
Two little boots.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Spanish Boots
(beck, stewart, wood)
I used to work and take a salary
In a hole up near a foundry
But it did not take me too long
To get my boots on a so long!
Long spanish boots on a so long!
I took a day job in bethlehem
I nearly threw in the towel then
But it did not take me too long
To get my boots on a so long!
High spanish boots on a so long!
Dig it
I took a spanish haberdashery
Restored with 15th century tapestry
But oh, mr. nesbitt got the best of me
So I strapped on my boots and said so long!
Laced up my high boots and so long!
Goodbye
... am on a job you see
cause my old boots they mean too much to me
Leather boots are just a mystery
Put on my boots and said so long!
High spanish boots on and so long!
Put on my boots and said so long!
Those old spanish boots
Put on my boots and said so long!
High spanish boots
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Angela Burdett-Coutts
Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest
Beneath our sacred sod:
A woman vowed to Good, whom all attest,
The daylight gift of God.
poem by George Meredith
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To A Young Lady, On Being Too Fond Of Music
Why is your mind thus all day long
Upon your music set;
Till reason's swallowed in a song,
Or idle canzonet?
I grant you, Melesinda, when
Your instrument was new,
I was well pleased to see you then
Its charms assiduous woo.
The rudiments of any art
Or mastery that we try,
Are only on the learner's part
Got by hard industry.
But you are past your first essays;
Whene'er you play, your touch,
Skilful and light, ensures you praise:
All beyond that's too much.
Music's sweet uses are, to smooth
Each rough and angry passion;
To elevate at once, and soothe:
A heavenly recreation.
But we misconstrue, and defeat
The end of any good;
When what should be our casual treat,
We make our constant food.
While, to the exclusion of the rest,
This single art you ply,
Your nobler studies are supprest,
Your books neglected lie.
Could you in what you so affect
The utmost summit reach;
Beyond what fondest friends expect,
Or skilfullest masters teach:
The skill you learned would not repay
The time and pains it cost,
Youth's precious season thrown away,
And reading-leisure lost.
A benefit to books we owe
Music can ne'er dispense;
The one does only sound bestow,
The other gives us sense.
poem by Charles Lamb
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A Stone Sits A Stone
Long oft towards
Where the sun light comes
Under the cover by an old cedar tree
Rest a stone upon a stone
There in a side of a hill
In wavering woods
Waters flow to the valley floor
How you sit
And tended your thoughts
Still, and motionless
Quiet enough to blend with the stone
Listen to the green woods
Beneath the freshing winds
Grows strong sorrow sleeps
Swarms of living life
And passion grows hungry
To the task of lovers lips
poem by Howard Johnson
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The Quest
I sought Him on the purple seas,
I sought Him on the peaks aflame;
Amid the gloom of giant trees
And canyons lone I called His name;
The wasted ways of earth I trod:
In vain! In vain! I found not God.
I sought Him in the hives of men,
The cities grand, the hamlets gray,
The temples old beyond my ken,
The tabernacles of to-day;
All life that is, from cloud to clod
I sought. . . . Alas! I found not God.
Then after roamings far and wide,
In streets and seas and deserts wild,
I came to stand at last beside
The death-bed of my little child.
Lo! as I bent beneath the rod
I raised my eyes . . . and there was God.
poem by Robert William Service
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Opportunity
I do not know if, climbing some steep hill,
Through fragrant wooded pass, this glimpse I bought,
Or whether in some mid-day I was caught
To upper air, where visions of God’s will
In pictures to our quickened sense fulfil
His word. But this I saw.
A path I sought
Through wall of rock. No human fingers wrought
The golden gates which opened sudden, still,
And wide. My fear was hushed by my delight.
Surpassing fair the lands; my path lay plain;
Alas, so spell-bound, feasting on the sight,
I paused, that I but reached the threshold bright,
When, swinging swift, the golden gates again
Were rocky wall, by which I wept in vain.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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To The Daisy (2)
BRIGHT Flower! whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,
And all the long year through the heir
Of joy or sorrow;
Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough!
Is it that Man is soon deprest?
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,
Or on his reason,
And Thou would'st teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind
And every season?
Thou wander'st the wide world about,
Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friend to greet thee, or without,
Yet pleased and willing;
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical
In peace fulfilling.
poem by William Wordsworth
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To The Daisy (third poem)
Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,
And all the long year through the heir
Of joy or sorrow;
Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough!
Is it that Man is soon deprest?
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,
Or on his reason,
And Thou would'st teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind
And every season?
Thou wander'st the wide world about,
Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friend to greet thee, or without,
Yet pleased and willing;
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical
In peace fulfilling.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Vault--After Sedgmoor
You need not call at the Inn;
I have ordered my bed:
Fair linen sheets therein
And a tester of lead.
No musty fusty scents
Such as inn chambers keep,
But tapestried with content
And hung with sleep.
My Inn door bears no bar
Set up against fear.
The guests have journeyed far,
They are glad to be here.
Where the damp arch curves up grey,
Long, long shall we lie;
Good King's men all are they,
A King's man I.
Old Giles, in his stone asleep,
Fought at Poictiers.
Piers Ralph and Roger keep
The spoil of their fighting years.
I shall lie with my folk at last
In a quiet bed;
I shall dream of the sword held fast
In a round-capped head.
Good tale of men all told
My Inn affords;
And their hands peace shall hold
That once held swords.
And we who rode and ran
On many a loyal quest
Shall find the goal of man -
A bed, and rest.
We shall not stand to the toast
Of Love or King;
We be all too tired to boast
About anything.
We be dumb that did jest and sing;
We rest who laboured and warred . . .
Shout once, shout once for the King.
Shout once for the sword!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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