tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84396072206560223572024-02-19T01:13:56.130-08:00Poems HallDon't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first. - Mark TwainBill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-88975364062896897542018-07-10T15:47:00.000-07:002018-07-10T15:47:06.248-07:00The Old Man's Funeral<i>By William Cullen Bryant</i><br />
<br />
I saw an aged man upon his bier,<br /> His hair was thin and white, and on his brow<br />A record of the cares of many a year;—<br /> Cares that were ended and forgotten now.<br />And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,<br />And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />Then rose another hoary man and said,<br /> In faltering accents, to that weeping train,<br />"Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?<br /> Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,<br />Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,<br />Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast.<br /><br />"Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,<br /> His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,<br />In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,<br /> Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,<br />And leaves the smile of his departure, spread<br />O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head.<br /><br />"Why weep ye then for him, who, having won<br /> The bound of man's appointed years, at last,<br />Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done,<br /> Serenely to his final rest has passed;<br />While the soft memory of his virtues, yet,<br />Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?<br /><br />"His youth was innocent; his riper age<br /> Marked with some act of goodness every day;<br />And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage,<br /> Faded his late declining years away.<br />Cheerful he gave his being up, and went<br />To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.<br /><br />"That life was happy; every day he gave<br /> Thanks for the fair existence that was his;<br />For a sick fancy made him not her slave,<br /> To mock him with her phantom miseries.<br />No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,<br />For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.<br /><br />"And I am glad that he has lived thus long,<br /> And glad that he has gone to his reward;<br />Nor can I deem that nature did him wrong,<br /> Softly to disengage the vital cord.<br />For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye<br />Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die."<br />Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-85471608030513808182017-03-11T14:19:00.000-08:002017-03-11T14:19:02.121-08:00A Legend of Madrid<i>By Adam Lindsay Gordon</i><br />
<br />
[Translated from the Spanish]<br /><br /> Francesca.<br /><br />Crush'd and throng'd are all the places<br />In our amphitheatre,<br />'Midst a sea of swarming faces<br />I can yet distinguish her;<br />Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina?<br />Is my secret known to thee?<br />On the sands of yon arena<br />I shall yet my vengeance see.<br />Now through portals fast careering<br />Picadors are disappearing;<br />Now the barriers nimbly clearing<br />Has the hindmost chulo flown.<br />Clots of dusky crimson streaking,<br />Brindled flanks and haunches reeking,<br />Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking,<br />On the matador alone.<br />Features by sombrero shaded,<br />Pale and passionless and cold;<br />Doublet richly laced and braided,<br />Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold,<br />Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,—<br />Mask more subtle, and disguise<br />Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh,<br />Traitor, to deceive my eyes.<br />Shouts of noisy acclamation,<br />Breathing savage expectation,<br />Greet him while he takes his station<br />Leisurely, disdaining haste;<br />Now he doffs his tall sombrero,<br />Fools! applaud your butcher hero,<br />Ye would idolise a Nero,<br />Pandering to public taste.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />From the restless Guadalquivir<br />To my sire's estates he came,<br />Woo'd and won me, how I shiver!<br />Though my temples burn with shame.<br />I, a proud and high-born lady,<br />Daughter of an ancient race,<br />'Neath the vine and olive shade I<br />Yielded to a churl's embrace.<br />To a churl my vows were plighted,<br />Well my madness he requited,<br />Since, by priestly ties, united<br />To the muleteer's child;<br />And my prayers are wafted o'er him,<br />That the bull may crush and gore him,<br />Since the love that once I bore him<br />Has been changed to hatred wild.<br /><br /> Nina.<br /><br />Save him! aid him! oh, Madonna!<br />Two are slain if he is slain;<br />Shield his life, and guard his honour,<br />Let me not entreat in vain.<br />Sullenly the brindled savage<br />Tears and tosses up the sand;<br />Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage,<br />How shall man your shock withstand?<br />On the shaggy neck and head lie<br />Frothy flakes, the eyeballs redly<br />Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly<br />Lower, short, and strong, and straight;<br />Fast, and furious, and fearless,<br />Now he charges;—virgin peerless,<br />Lifting lids, all dry and tearless,<br />At thy throne I supplicate.<br /><br /> Francesca.<br /><br />Cool and calm, the perjured varlet<br />Stands on strongly-planted heel,<br />In his left a strip of scarlet,<br />In his right a streak of steel;<br />Ah! the monster topples over,<br />Till his haunches strike the plain!—<br />Low-born clown and lying lover,<br />Thou hast conquer'd once again.<br /><br /> Nina.<br /><br />Sweet Madonna, maiden mother,<br />Thou hast saved him, and no other;<br />Now the tears I cannot smother,<br />Tears of joy my vision blind;<br />Where thou sittest I am gazing,<br />These glad, misty eyes upraising,<br />I have pray'd, and I am praising,<br />Bless thee! bless thee! virgin kind.<br /><br /> Francesca.<br /><br />While the crowd still sways and surges,<br />Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd,<br />See, the second bull emerges—<br />'Tis the famed Cordovan beast,—<br />By the picador ungoaded,<br />Scathless of the chulo's dart.<br />Slay him, and with guerdon loaded,<br />And with honours crown'd depart.<br />No vain brutish strife he wages,<br />Never uselessly he rages,<br />And his cunning, as he ages,<br />With his hatred seems to grow;<br />Though he stands amid the cheering,<br />Sluggish to the eye appearing,<br />Few will venture on the spearing<br />Of so resolute a foe.<br /><br /> Nina.<br /><br />Courage, there is little danger,<br />Yonder dull-eyed craven seems<br />Fitter far for stall and manger<br />Than for scarf and blade that gleams;<br />Shorter, and of frame less massive,<br />Than his comrade lying low,<br />Tame, and cowardly, and passive,—<br />He will prove a feebler foe.<br />I have done with doubt and anguish,<br />Fears like dews in sunshine languish,<br />Courage, husband, we shall vanquish,<br />Thou art calm and so am I.<br />For the rush he has not waited,<br />On he strides with step elated,<br />And the steel with blood unsated,<br />Leaps to end the butchery.<br /><br /> Francesca.<br /><br />Tyro! mark the brands of battle<br />On those shoulders dusk and dun,<br />Such as he is are the cattle<br />Skill'd tauridors gladly shun;<br />Warier than the Andalusian,<br />Swifter far, though not so large,<br />Think'st thou, to his own confusion,<br />He, like him, will blindly charge?<br />Inch by inch the brute advances,<br />Stealthy yet vindictive glances,<br />Horns as straight as levell'd lances,<br />Crouching withers, stooping haunches;—<br />Closer yet, until the tightening<br />Strains of rapt excitement height'ning<br />Grows oppressive. Ha! like lightning<br />On his enemy he launches.<br /><br /> Nina.<br /><br />O'er the horn'd front drops the streamer,<br />In the nape the sharp steel hisses,<br />Glances, grazes,—Christ! Redeemer!<br />By a hair the spine he misses.<br /><br /> Francesca.<br /><br />Hark! that shock like muffled thunder,<br />Booming from the Pyrenees!<br />Both are down—the man is under—<br />Now he struggles to his knees,<br />Now he sinks, his features leaden<br />Sharpen rigidly and deaden,<br />Sands beneath him soak and redden,<br />Skies above him spin and veer;<br />Through the doublet torn and riven,<br />Where the stunted horn was driven,<br />Wells the life-blood—We are even,<br />Daughter of the muleteer!<br />Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-91834158224332214312016-04-10T16:03:00.000-07:002016-04-10T16:03:05.012-07:00A Visit From The Sea<i>By Robert Louis Stevenson</i><br />
<br />
Far from the loud sea beaches<br /> Where he goes fishing and crying,<br />Here in the inland garden<br /> Why is the sea-gull flying?<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />Here are no fish to dive for;<br /> Here is the corn and lea;<br />Here are the green trees rustling.<br /> Hie away home to sea!<br /><br />Fresh is the river water<br /> And quiet among the rushes;<br />This is no home for the sea-gull<br /> But for the rooks and thrushes.<br /><br />Pity the bird that has wandered!<br /> Pity the sailor ashore!<br />Hurry him home to the ocean,<br /> Let him come here no more!<br /><br />High on the sea-cliff ledges<br /> The white gulls are trooping and crying,<br />Here among the rooks and roses,<br /> Why is the sea-gull flying?<br />Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-78493858297932975062015-06-15T15:07:00.002-07:002015-06-15T15:07:19.837-07:00Let Me Sing Of What I Know<i>By William Allingham</i><br />
<br />
A wild west Coast, a little Town,<br />Where little Folk go up and down,<br />Tides flow and winds blow:<br />
<a name='more'></a>Night and Tempest and the Sea,<br />Human Will and Human Fate:<br />What is little, what is great?<br />Howsoe'er the answer be,<br />Let me sing of what I know.<br />Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-59857360586034273242015-05-16T19:55:00.000-07:002015-05-16T19:55:50.100-07:00Dispraise Of A Courtly Life<i>By Sir Philip Sidney</i><br />
<br />
Walking in bright Phœbus’ blaze,<br />
Where with heat oppressed I was,<br />
I got to a shady wood,<br />
Where green leaves did newly bud;<br />
And of grass was plenty dwelling,<br />
Decked with pied flowers sweetly smelling.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
In this wood a man I met,<br />
On lamenting wholly set;<br />
Ruing change of wonted state,<br />
Whence he was transforméd late,<br />
Once to shepherds’ God retaining,<br />
Now in servile court remaining.<br />
<br />
There he wand’ring malecontent,<br />
Up and down perpléxed went,<br />
Daring not to tell to me,<br />
Spake unto a senseless tree,<br />
One among the rest electing,<br />
These same words, or this affecting:<br />
<br />
“My old mates I grieve to see<br />
Void of me in field to be,<br />
Where we once our lovely sheep<br />
Lovingly like friends did keep;<br />
Oft each other’s friendship proving,<br />
Never striving, but in loving.<br />
<br />
“But may love abiding be<br />
In poor shepherds’ base degree?<br />
It belongs to such alone<br />
To whom art of love is known:<br />
Seely shepherds are not witting<br />
What in art of love is fitting.<br />
<br />
“Nay, what need the art to those<br />
To whom we our love disclose?<br />
It is to be uséd then,<br />
When we do but flatter men:<br />
Friendship true, in heart assured,<br />
Is by Nature’s gifts procured.<br />
<br />
“Therefore shepherds, wanting skill,<br />
Can Love’s duties best fulfil;<br />
Since they know not how to feign,<br />
Nor with love to cloak disdain,<br />
Like the wiser sort, whose learning<br />
Hides their inward will of harming.<br />
<br />
“Well was I, while under shade<br />
Oaten reeds me music made,<br />
Striving with my mates in song;<br />
Mixing mirth our songs among.<br />
Greater was the shepherd’s treasure<br />
Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.<br />
<br />
“Where how many creatures be,<br />
So many puffed in mind I see;<br />
Like to Juno’s birds of pride,<br />
Scarce each other can abide:<br />
Friends like to black swans appearing,<br />
Sooner these than those in hearing.<br />
<br />
“Therefore, Pan, if thou may’st be<br />
Made to listen unto me,<br />
Grant, I say, if seely man<br />
May make treaty to god Pan,<br />
That I, without thy denying,<br />
May be still to thee relying.<br />
<br />
“Only for my two loves’ sake,<br />
In whose love I pleasure take;<br />
Only two do me delight<br />
With their ever-pleasing sight;<br />
Of all men to thee retaining,<br />
Grant me with those two remaining.<br />
<br />
“So shall I to thee always<br />
With my reeds sound mighty praise:<br />
And first lamb that shall befall,<br />
Yearly deck thine altar shall,<br />
If it please thee to be reflected,<br />
And I from thee not rejected.”<br />
<br />
So I left him in that place,<br />
Taking pity on his case;<br />
Learning this among the rest,<br />
That the mean estate is best;<br />
Better filléd with contenting,<br />
Void of wishing and repenting.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-3299289600327947592015-05-10T12:44:00.001-07:002015-05-10T12:44:47.786-07:00Wolf and Hound<i>By Adam Lindsay Gordon</i><br />
<br />
"The hills like giants at a hunting lay<br /> Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay."—Browning.<br /><br /> You'll take my tale with a little salt,<br /> But it needs none, nevertheless,<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /> I was foil'd completely, fairly at fault,<br /> Dishearten'd, too, I confess.<br /> At the splitters' tent I had seen the track<br /> Of horse-hoofs fresh on the sward,<br /> And though Darby Lynch and Donovan Jack<br /> (Who could swear through a ten-inch board)<br /> Solemnly swore he had not been there,<br /> I was just as sure that they lied,<br /> For to Darby all that is foul was fair,<br /> And Jack for his life was tried.<br /><br /> We had run him for seven miles and more<br /> As hard as our nags could split;<br /> At the start they were all too weary and sore,<br /> And his was quite fresh and fit.<br /> Young Marsden's pony had had enough<br /> On the plain, where the chase was hot;<br /> We breasted the swell of the Bittern's Bluff,<br /> And Mark couldn't raise a trot;<br /> When the sea, like a splendid silver shield,<br /> To the south-west suddenly lay;<br /> On the brow of the Beetle the chestnut reel'd,<br /> And I bid good-bye to M'Crea—<br /> And I was alone when the mare fell lame,<br /> With a pointed flint in her shoe,<br /> On the Stony Flats: I had lost the game,<br /> And what was a man to do?<br /><br /> I turned away with no fixed intent<br /> And headed for Hawthorndell;<br /> I could neither eat in the splitters' tent,<br /> Nor drink at the splitters' well;<br /> I knew that they gloried in my mishap,<br /> And I cursed them between my teeth—<br /> A blood-red sunset through Brayton's Gap<br /> Flung a lurid fire on the heath.<br /><br /> Could I reach the Dell? I had little reck,<br /> And with scarce a choice of my own<br /> I threw the reins on Miladi's neck—<br /> I had freed her foot from the stone.<br /> That season most of the swamps were dry,<br /> And after so hard a burst,<br /> In the sultry noon of so hot a sky,<br /> She was keen to appease her thirst—<br /> Or by instinct urged or impelled by fate—<br /> I care not to solve these things—<br /> Certain it is that she took me straight<br /> To the Warrigal water springs.<br /><br /> I can shut my eyes and recall the ground<br /> As though it were yesterday—<br /> With a shelf of the low, grey rocks girt round,<br /> The springs in their basin lay;<br /> Woods to the east and wolds to the north<br /> In the sundown sullenly bloom'd;<br /> Dead black on a curtain of crimson cloth<br /> Large peaks to the westward loomed.<br /> I led Miladi through weed and sedge,<br /> She leisurely drank her fill;<br /> There was something close to the water's edge,<br /> And my heart with one leap stood still,<br /><br /> For a horse's shoe and a rider's boot<br /> Had left clean prints on the clay;<br /> Someone had watered his beast on foot.<br /> 'Twas he—he had gone. Which way?<br /> Then the mouth of the cavern faced me fair,<br /> As I turned and fronted the rocks;<br /> So, at last, I had pressed the wolf to his lair,<br /> I had run to his earth the fox.<br /><br /> I thought so. Perhaps he was resting. Perhaps<br /> He was waiting, watching for me.<br /> I examined all my revolver caps,<br /> I hitched my mare to a tree—<br /> I had sworn to have him, alive or dead,<br /> And to give him a chance was loth.<br /> He knew his life had been forfeited—<br /> He had even heard of my oath.<br /> In my stocking soles to the shelf I crept,<br /> I crawl'd safe into the cave—<br /> All silent—if he was there he slept<br /> Not there. All dark as the grave.<br /><br /> Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss!<br /> See the livid face through the flame!<br /> How strange it seems that a man should miss<br /> When his life depends on his aim!<br /> There couldn't have been a better light<br /> For him, nor a worse for me.<br /> We were coop'd up, caged like beasts for a fight,<br /> And dumb as dumb beasts were we.<br /><br /> Flash! flash! bang! bang! and we blazed away,<br /> And the grey roof reddened and rang;<br /> Flash! flash! and I felt his bullet flay<br /> The tip of my ear. Flash! bang!<br /> Bang! flash! and my pistol arm fell broke;<br /> I struck with my left hand then—<br /> Struck at a corpse through a cloud of smoke—<br /> I had shot him dead in his den!<br /><br />Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-89660137569464680692013-10-29T15:26:00.000-07:002013-10-29T15:26:01.735-07:00On Lyric PoetryBy <i>Mark Akenside</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> I.—1.</b><br /><br /> Once more I join the Thespian choir,<br /> And taste the inspiring fount again:<br /> O parent of the Grecian lyre,<br /> Admit me to thy powerful strain—<br /> And lo, with ease my step invades<br /> The pathless vale and opening shades,<br /> Till now I spy her verdant seat;<br /> And now at large I drink the sound,<br /> While these her offspring, listening round.<br /> By turns her melody repeat.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<b>I.—2.</b><br /><br /> I see Anacreon smile and sing,<br /> His silver tresses breathe perfume:<br /> His cheek displays a second spring<br /> Of roses, taught by wine to bloom.<br /> Away, deceitful cares, away,<br /> And let me listen to his lay;<br /> Let me the wanton pomp enjoy,<br /> While in smooth dance the light-wing'd Hours<br /> Lead round his lyre its patron powers,<br /> Kind Laughter and Convivial Joy.<br /><br />
<b>I.—3.</b><br /><br /> Broke from the fetters of his native land,<br /> Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords,<br /> With louder impulse and a threatening hand<br /> The Lesbian patriot [1] smites the sounding chords:<br /> Ye wretches, ye perfidious train,<br /> Ye cursed of gods and free-born men,<br /> Ye murderers of the laws,<br /> Though now ye glory in your lust,<br /> Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust,<br /> Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause.<br /><br />
<b>II.—1.</b><br /><br /> But lo, to Sappho's melting airs<br /> Descends the radiant queen of love:<br /> She smiles, and asks what fonder cares<br /> Her suppliant's plaintive measures move:<br /> Why is my faithful maid distress'd?<br /> Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?<br /> Say, flies he?—Soon he shall pursue:<br /> Shuns he thy gifts?—He soon shall give:<br /> Slights he thy sorrows?—He shall grieve,<br /> And soon to all thy wishes bow.<br />
<br /><b>II.—2.</b><br /><br /> But, O Melpomene, for whom<br /> Awakes thy golden shell again?<br /> What mortal breath shall e'er presume<br /> To echo that unbounded strain?<br /> Majestic in the frown of years,<br /> Behold, the man of Thebes [2] appears:<br /> For some there are, whose mighty frame<br /> The hand of Jove at birth endow'd<br /> With hopes that mock the gazing crowd;<br /> As eagles drink the noontide flame;<br /><br />
<b>II.—3.</b><br /><br /> While the dim raven beats her weary wings,<br /> And clamours far below.—Propitious Muse,<br /> While I so late unlock thy purer springs,<br /> And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse,<br /> Wilt thou for Albion's sons around<br /> (Ne'er hadst thou audience more renown'd)<br /> Thy charming arts employ,<br /> As when the winds from shore to shore<br /> Through Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore,<br /> Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy?<br /><br />
<b>III.—1.</b><br /><br /> Yet then did Pleasure's lawless throng,<br /> Oft rushing forth in loose attire,<br /> Thy virgin dance, thy graceful song<br /> Pollute with impious revels dire.<br /> O fair, O chaste, thy echoing shade<br /> May no foul discord here invade:<br /> Nor let thy strings one accent move,<br /> Except what earth's untroubled ear<br /> 'Mid all her social tribes may hear,<br /> And heaven's unerring throne approve.<br /><br />
<b>III.—2.</b><br /><br /> Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat<br /> The fairest flowers of Pindus glow;<br /> The vine aspires to crown thy seat,<br /> And myrtles round thy laurel grow.<br /> Thy strings adapt their varied strain<br /> To every pleasure, every pain,<br /> Which mortal tribes were born to prove;<br /> And straight our passions rise or fall,<br /> As at the wind's imperious call<br /> The ocean swells, the billows move.<br /><br />
<b>III.—3.</b><br /><br /> When midnight listens o'er the slumbering earth,<br /> Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear:<br /> When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth,<br /> With airy murmurs touch my opening ear.<br /> And ever watchful at thy side,<br /> Let Wisdom's awful suffrage guide<br /> The tenor of thy lay:<br /> To her of old by Jove was given<br /> To judge the various deeds of earth and heaven;<br /> 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway.<br />
<br /><b>IV.—1.</b><br /><br /> Oft as, to well-earn'd ease resign'd,<br /> I quit the maze where Science toils,<br /> Do thou refresh my yielding mind<br /> With all thy gay, delusive spoils.<br /> But, O indulgent, come not nigh<br /> The busy steps, the jealous eye<br /> Of wealthy care or gainful age;<br /> Whose barren souls thy joys disdain,<br /> And hold as foes to reason's reign<br /> Whome'er thy lovely works engage.<br /><br />
<b>IV.—2.</b><br /><br /> When friendship and when letter'd mirth<br /> Haply partake my simple board,<br /> Then let thy blameless hand call forth<br /> The music of the Teian chord.<br /> Or if invoked at softer hours,<br /> Oh! seek with me the happy bowers<br /> That hear Olympia's gentle tongue;<br /> To beauty link'd with virtue's train,<br /> To love devoid of jealous pain,<br /> There let the Sapphic lute be strung.<br /><br />
<b>IV.—3.</b><br /><br /> But when from envy and from death to claim<br /> A hero bleeding for his native land;<br /> When to throw incense on the vestal flame<br /> Of Liberty my genius gives command,<br /> Nor Theban voice nor Lesbian lyre<br /> From thee, O Muse, do I require;<br /> While my presaging mind,<br /> Conscious of powers she never knew,<br /> Astonish'd, grasps at things beyond her view,<br /> Nor by another's fate submits to be confined.<br /><br />[Footnote 1: 'The Lesbian patriot:' Alcaeus.]<br /><br />[Footnote 2: 'The man of Thebes:' Pindar.]Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-40048283265353926252013-10-11T15:25:00.001-07:002013-10-11T15:28:03.166-07:00Another On The SameBy <i>John Milton</i><br />
<br />
HERE lieth one who did most truly prove,<br />
That he could never die while he could move,<br />
So hung his destiny never to rot<br />
While he might still jogg on, and keep his trot,<br />
Made of sphear-metal, never to decay<br />
Untill his revolution was at stay.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime<br />
'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:<br />
And like an Engin mov'd with wheel and waight,<br />
His principles being ceast, he ended strait. <br />
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,<br />
And too much breathing put him out of breath;<br />
Nor were it contradiction to affirm<br />
Too long vacation hastned on his term.<br />
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn'd,<br />
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn'd;<br />
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,<br />
If I may not carry, sure Ile ne're be fetch'd,<br />
But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,<br />
For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.<br />
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,<br />
He di'd for heavines that his Cart went light,<br />
His leasure told him that his time was com,<br />
And lack of load, made his life burdensom<br />
That even to his last breath (ther be that say't)<br />
As he were prest to death, he cry'd more waight;<br />
But had his doings lasted as they were,<br />
He had bin an immortall Carrier.<br />
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date<br />
In cours reciprocal, and had his fate <br />
Linkt to the mutual flowing of the Seas,<br />
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:<br />
His Letters are deliver'd all and gon,<br />
Onely remains this superscription.<br />
<br />Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-40302675344500138372013-08-25T16:53:00.000-07:002013-08-25T16:53:25.314-07:00The Lover And Birds<i>By William Allingham</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="i8">Within a budding grove,</span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0">In April's ear sang every bird his best,</span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">But not a song to pleasure my unrest,</span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12">To every word</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12">Of every bird</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8">I listen'd, and replied as it behove.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8">Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0">Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12">Yet from a twig,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12">With voice so big,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8">The little fowl his utterance did repeat.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8">Then I, 'The man forlorn</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0">Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">'And what'll he do? What'll he do?' scoff'd</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">The Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12">With cackling laugh;</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12">Whom I, being half</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8">Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8">Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0">Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay.)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">'Take heed! take heed!' then 'Why? why? why? why? why?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12">O Thrush, be still!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12">Or at thy will,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8">Seek some less sad interpreter than I.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8">'Air, air! blue air and white!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0">Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12">'Gay Lark,' I said,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12">'The song that's bred</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8">In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8">'There's something, something sad,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0">I half remember'—piped a broken strain.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0">Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12">Till now, grown meek,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12">With wetted cheek,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8"><span class="i8"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i0"><span class="i12"><span class="i12"><span class="i8">Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.</span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span></span></span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> </span> Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-17941576353481591692013-07-29T14:19:00.001-07:002013-07-29T14:19:05.132-07:00Winter Song<i>By Robert Bloomfield</i><br />
<br />
Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down,<br />And sweep this deep Snow from the door:<br />Old Winter comes on with a frown;<br />A terrible frown for the poor.<br />In a Season so rude and forlorn<br />How can age, how can infancy bear<br />The silent neglect and the scorn<br />Of those who have plenty to spare?<br /><br />Fresh broach'd is my Cask of old Ale,<br />Well-tim'd now the frost is set in;<br />Here's Job come to tell us a tale,<br />We'll make him at home to a pin.<br />While my Wife and I bask o'er the fire,<br />The roll of the Seasons will prove,<br />That Time may diminish desire,<br />But cannot extinguish true love.<br /><br />O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,<br />If you can but keep scandal away,<br />To learn what the world has been at,<br />And what the great Orators say;<br />Though the Wind through the crevices sing,<br />And Hail down the chimney rebound,<br />I'm happier than many a king<br />While the Bellows blow Bass to the sound.<br /><br />Abundance was never my lot:<br />But out of the trifle that's given,<br />That no curse may alight on my Cot,<br />I'll distribute the bounty of Heaven:<br />The fool and the slave gather wealth;<br />But if I add nought to my store,<br />Yet while I keep conscience in health,<br />I've a Mine that will never grow poor.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-52318548988508237032013-04-07T15:27:00.001-07:002013-04-07T15:27:34.123-07:00To My Old Oak Table<i>By Robert Bloomfield</i><br />
<br />
Friend of my peaceful days! substantial friend,<br />Whom wealth can never change, nor int'rest bend,<br />I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me<br />The dumb companion of my misery,<br />And oftner of my joys;—then as I spoke,<br />I shar'd thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak!<br />For surely when my labour ceas'd at night,<br />With trembling, feverish hands, and aching sight,<br />The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my care,<br />On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to bear<br />O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate,<br />I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate:<br />On thee, with winter muffins for thy store,<br />I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor.<br /><br />Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to thee?<br />Can'st thou trace back thy line of ancestry?<br />We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine,<br />Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine;<br />Both may be truly honourable: yet,<br />We'll date our honours from the day we met;<br />When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock,<br />Right welcome up the Thames from Woolwich Dock<br />Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high and love was young;<br />But soon our olive-branches round thee sprung;<br />Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife,<br />The noise of children, and the cares of life.<br />Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky,<br />That cough which blights the bud of infancy,<br />The dread of parents, Rest's inveterate foe,<br />Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe.<br /><br />Rest! without thee what strength can long survive,<br />What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive?<br />The midnight murmur of the cradle gave<br />Sounds of despair; and chilly as the grave.<br />We felt its undulating blast arise,<br />Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs.<br />Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep,<br />By turns to watch alone, by turns to weep,<br />By turns to hear, and keep from starting wild,<br />The sad, faint wailings of a dying child.<br />But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high command,<br />Withdrew his jav'lin, and unclench'd his hand;<br />The little sufferers triumph'd over pain,<br />Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope again.<br />Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less,<br />Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress;<br />Anxiety, and Griefs without a name,<br />Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame;<br />The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be,<br />Unnerv'd my arm, and bow'd my head to thee.<br />Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true;<br />These eyes the bitterest tears they ever knew<br />Let fall upon thee; now all wip'd away;<br />But what from memory shall wipe out that day?<br />The great, the wealthy of my native land,<br />To whom a guinea is a grain of sand,<br />I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free,<br />But all unknown were then my woes and me.<br /><br />Still, Resignation was my dearest friend,<br />And Reason pointed to a glorious end;<br />With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride,<br />I wish'd to live—I trust I could have died!<br />But winter's clouds pursu'd their stormy way,<br />And March brought sunshine with the length'ning day,<br />And bade my heart arise, that morn and night<br />Now throbb'd with irresistible delight.<br />Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind,<br />And feel the renovation of the mind!<br />To lead abroad upborne on Pleasure's wing,<br />Our children, midst the glories of the spring;<br />Our fellow sufferers, our only wealth,<br />To gather daisies in the breeze of health!<br /><br />'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair,<br />And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pray'r;<br />Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd,<br />That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud;<br />Had gain'd the centre of the checquer'd floor;—<br />That instant, with reverberating roar<br />Burst forth the pealing organ——mute we stood;—<br />The strong sensation boiling through my blood,<br />Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain,<br />I wept, and worshipp'd GOD, and wept again;<br />And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise,<br />The sweet assurances of better days.<br /><br />In that gay season, honest friend of mine,<br />I mark'd the brilliant sun upon thee shine;<br />Imagination took her flights so free,<br />Home was delicious with my book and thee,<br />The purchas'd nosegay, or brown ears of corn,<br />Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn,<br />Awakening memory, that disdains control,<br />They spoke the darling language of my soul:<br />They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth,<br />And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth:<br />Fancy presided at the joyful birth,<br />I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth;<br />Conscious of truth in Nature's humble track,<br />And wrote "The Farmer's Boy" upon thy back!<br />Enough, old friend:—thou'rt mine; and shalt partake,<br />While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak,<br />Whatever fortune deals me.—Part with thee!<br />No, not till death shall set my spirit free;<br />For know, should plenty crown my life's decline,<br />A most important duty may be thine:<br />Then, guard me from Temptation's base control,<br />From apathy and littleness of soul<br />The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rode,<br />Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude;<br />Shall teach me but to venerate the more<br />Honest Oak Tables and their guests—the poor:<br />Teach me unjust distinctions to deride,<br />And falsehoods gender'd in the brain of Pride;<br />Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour,<br />To Intellect, its freedom and its power;<br />To Hospitality's enchanting ring<br />A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring.<br />The man who would not look with honest pride<br />On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide,<br />And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee,<br />Home, through the mighty perils of the sea,<br />I love him not.—He ne'er shall be my guest;<br />Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest;<br />Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame,<br />A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame;<br />But thou through life a monitor shalt prove,<br />Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-6304829693372852442013-03-22T17:25:00.000-07:002013-03-22T17:25:53.649-07:00After The War<i>By Walt Whitman</i><br />
<br />
To the leavened soil they trod, calling, I sing, for the last;<br />Not cities, nor man alone, nor war, nor the dead:<br />But forth from my tent emerging for good—loosing, untying the tent-ropes;<br />In the freshness, the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and<br /> vistas, again to peace restored;<br />To the fiery fields emanative, and the endless vistas beyond—to the south<br /> and the north;<br />To the leavened soil of the general Western World, to attest my songs,<br />To the average earth, the wordless earth, witness of war and peace,<br />To the Alleghanian hills, and the tireless Mississippi,<br />To the rocks I, calling, sing, and all the trees in the woods,<br />To the plain of the poems of heroes, to the prairie spreading wide,<br />To the far-off sea, and the unseen winds, and the sane impalpable air.<br />And responding they answer all, (but not in words,)<br />The average earth, the witness of war and peace, acknowledges mutely;<br />The prairie draws me close, as the father, to bosom broad, the son:—<br />The Northern ice and rain, that began me, nourish me to the end;<br />But the hot sun of the South is to ripen my songs.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-21837598397172336992012-04-26T15:31:00.001-07:002012-04-26T15:31:51.240-07:00A Little Grey Curl<i>By Louisa May Alcott</i><br />
<br />
A little grey curl from my father's head<br />I find unburned on the hearth,<br />And give it a place in my diary here,<br />With a feeling half sadness, half mirth.<br />For the long white locks are our special pride,<br />Though he smiles at his daughter's praise;<br />But, oh, they have grown each year more thin,<br />Till they are now but a silvery haze.<br />
<br />That wise old head! (though it does grow bald<br />With the knocks hard fortune may give)<br />Has a store of faith and hope and trust,<br />Which have taught him how to live.<br />
Though the hat be old, there's a face below<br />Which telleth to those who look<br />The history of a good man's life,<br />And it cheers like a blessed book.<br />
<br />
A peddler of jewels, of clocks, and of books,<br />Many a year of his wandering youth;<br />A peddler still, with a far richer pack,<br />His wares are wisdom and love and truth.<br />But now, as then, few purchase or pause,<br />For he cannot learn the tricks of trade;<br />Little silver he wins, but that which time<br />Is sprinkling thick on his meek old head.<br />
<br />But there'll come a day when the busy world,<br />Grown sick with its folly and pride,<br />Will remember the mild-faced peddler then<br />Whom it rudely had set aside;<br />Will remember the wares he offered it once<br />And will seek to find him again,<br />Eager to purchase truth, wisdom, and love,<br />But, oh, it will seek him in vain.<br />
<br />It will find but his footsteps left behind<br />Along the byways of life,<br />Where he patiently walked, striving the while<br />To quiet its tumult and strife.<br />But the peddling pilgrim has laid down his pack<br />And gone with his earnings away;<br />How small will they seem, remembering the debt<br />Which the world too late would repay.<br />
<br />God bless the dear head! and crown it with years<br />Untroubled and calmly serene;<br />That the autumn of life more golden may be<br />For the heats and the storms that have been.<br />My heritage none can ever dispute,<br />My fortune will bring neither strife nor care;<br />'Tis an honest name, 'tis a beautiful life,<br />And the silver lock of my father's hair.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-76317927187333012792012-02-24T07:54:00.001-08:002012-02-24T07:57:13.330-08:00The Song of the Surf<span style="font-style: italic;">By Adam Lindsay Gordon</span><br /><br /> White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar<br /> On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the shore,<br /> Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain,<br /> When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain?<br /> My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone,<br /> In a hieroglyphic 'tis written—'tis spoken in a tongue unknown;<br /> Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say!<br /> What is the tale you are telling? What is the drift of your lay?<br /><br /> You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your countless<br /> years;<br /> You break, with a rainbow of glory,<br /> through the spray of your glittering tears.<br /> Is your song a song of gladness? a paean of joyous might?<br /> Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right?<br /> For the empty seat by the ingle? for children 'reft of their sire?<br /> For the bride sitting sad, and single, and pale, by the flickering fire?<br /> For your ravenous pools of suction? for your shattering billow swell?<br /> For your ceaseless work of destruction? for your hunger insatiable?<br /><br /> Not far from this very place, on the sand and the shingle dry,<br /> He lay, with his batter'd face upturned to the frowning sky.<br /> When your waters wash'd and swill'd high over his drowning head,<br /> When his nostrils and lungs were filled,<br /> when his feet and hands were as lead,<br /> When against the rock he was hurl'd, and suck'd again to the sea,<br /> On the shores of another world, on the brink of eternity,<br /> On the verge of annihilation, did it come to that swimmer strong,<br /> The sudden interpretation of your mystical, weird-like song?<br /><br /> "Mortal! that which thou askest, ask not thou of the waves;<br /> Fool! thou foolishly taskest us—we are only slaves;<br /> Might, more mighty, impels us—we must our lot fulfil,<br /> He who gathers and swells us curbs us, too, at His will.<br /> Think'st thou the wave that shatters questioneth His decree?<br /> Little to us it matters, and naught it matters to thee.<br /> Not thus, murmuring idly, we from our duty would swerve,<br /> Over the world spread widely ever we labour and serve."Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-55021289019543640442012-01-27T14:20:00.000-08:002012-01-27T14:26:17.398-08:00To Miss Hickman,Playing On The Spinnet<span style="font-style: italic;">By Samuel Johnson</span><br /><br /> Bright Stella! form'd for universal reign,<br /> Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain:<br /> When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,<br /> Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey,<br /> And yield reluctant to despotic sway:<br /> But when your music soothes the raging pain,<br /> We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign,<br /> We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.<br /><br /> When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,<br /> Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king:<br /> Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,<br /> He pants for room, in one poor world confined.<br /> Thus waked to rage, by Music's dreadful power,<br /> He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.<br /> Had Stella's gentler touches moved the lyre,<br /> Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire:<br /> No more delighted with destructive war,<br /> Ambitious only now to please the fair;<br /> Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,<br /> And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-55433245495223562222012-01-21T13:48:00.000-08:002012-01-21T13:53:54.909-08:00The Progress Of Beauty<span style="font-style: italic;">By Jonathan Swift</span><br /><br />When first Diana leaves her bed,<br /> Vapours and steams her looks disgrace,<br />A frowzy dirty-colour'd red<br /> Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face:<br /><br />But by degrees, when mounted high,<br /> Her artificial face appears<br />Down from her window in the sky,<br /> Her spots are gone, her visage clears.<br /><br />'Twixt earthly females and the moon,<br /> All parallels exactly run;<br />If Celia should appear too soon,<br /> Alas, the nymph would be undone!<br /><br />To see her from her pillow rise,<br /> All reeking in a cloudy steam,<br />Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes,<br /> Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme!<br /><br />The soot or powder which was wont<br /> To make her hair look black as jet,<br />Falls from her tresses on her front,<br /> A mingled mass of dirt and sweat.<br /><br />Three colours, black, and red, and white<br /> So graceful in their proper place,<br />Remove them to a different light,<br /> They form a frightful hideous face:<br /><br />For instance, when the lily slips<br /> Into the precincts of the rose,<br />And takes possession of the lips,<br /> Leaving the purple to the nose:<br /><br />So Celia went entire to bed,<br /> All her complexion safe and sound;<br />But, when she rose, the black and red,<br /> Though still in sight, had changed their ground.<br /><br />The black, which would not be confined,<br /> A more inferior station seeks,<br />Leaving the fiery red behind,<br /> And mingles in her muddy cheeks.<br /><br />The paint by perspiration cracks,<br /> And falls in rivulets of sweat,<br />On either side you see the tracks<br /> While at her chin the conflu'nts meet.<br /><br />A skilful housewife thus her thumb,<br /> With spittle while she spins anoints;<br />And thus the brown meanders come<br /> In trickling streams betwixt her joints.<br /><br />But Celia can with ease reduce,<br /> By help of pencil, paint, and brush,<br />Each colour to its place and use,<br /> And teach her cheeks again to blush.<br /><br />She knows her early self no more,<br /> But fill'd with admiration stands;<br />As other painters oft adore<br /> The workmanship of their own hands.<br /><br />Thus, after four important hours,<br /> Celia's the wonder of her sex;<br />Say, which among the heavenly powers<br /> Could cause such wonderful effects?<br /><br />Venus, indulgent to her kind,<br /> Gave women all their hearts could wish,<br />When first she taught them where to find<br /> White lead, and Lusitanian dish.<br /><br />Love with white lead cements his wings;<br /> White lead was sent us to repair<br />Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things,<br /> A lady's face, and China-ware.<br /><br />She ventures now to lift the sash;<br /> The window is her proper sphere;<br />Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash,<br /> Nor let the beaux approach too near.<br /><br />Take pattern by your sister star;<br /> Delude at once and bless our sight;<br />When you are seen, be seen from far,<br /> And chiefly choose to shine by night.<br /><br />In the Pall Mall when passing by,<br /> Keep up the glasses of your chair,<br />Then each transported fop will cry,<br /> "G——d d——n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!"<br /><br />But art no longer can prevail,<br /> When the materials all are gone;<br />The best mechanic hand must fail,<br /> Where nothing's left to work upon.<br /><br />Matter, as wise logicians say,<br /> Cannot without a form subsist;<br />And form, say I, as well as they,<br /> Must fail if matter brings no grist.<br /><br />And this is fair Diana's case;<br /> For, all astrologers maintain,<br />Each night a bit drops off her face,<br /> When mortals say she's in her wane:<br /><br />While Partridge wisely shows the cause<br /> Efficient of the moon's decay,<br />That Cancer with his pois'nous claws<br /> Attacks her in the milky way:<br /><br />But Gadbury, in art profound,<br /> From her pale cheeks pretends to show<br />That swain Endymion is not sound,<br /> Or else that Mercury's her foe.<br /><br />But let the cause be what it will,<br /> In half a month she looks so thin,<br />That Flamsteed can, with all his skill,<br /> See but her forehead and her chin.<br /><br />Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet,<br /> Till midnight never shows her head;<br />So rotting Celia strolls the street,<br /> When sober folks are all a-bed:<br /><br />For sure, if this be Luna's fate,<br /> Poor Celia, but of mortal race,<br />In vain expects a longer date<br /> To the materials of her face.<br /><br />When Mercury her tresses mows,<br /> To think of oil and soot is vain:<br />No painting can restore a nose,<br /> Nor will her teeth return again.<br /><br />Two balls of glass may serve for eyes,<br /> White lead can plaister up a cleft;<br />But these, alas, are poor supplies<br /> If neither cheeks nor lips be left.<br /><br />Ye powers who over love preside!<br /> Since mortal beauties drop so soon,<br />If ye would have us well supplied,<br /> Send us new nymphs with each new moon!Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-50599439190460522712012-01-02T16:54:00.000-08:002012-01-02T16:59:59.786-08:00To The Author Of Memoirs Of The House Of Brandenburg<span style="font-style: italic;">By Mark Akenside</span><br /><br /> 1 The men renown'd as chiefs of human race,<br /> And born to lead in counsels or in arms,<br /> Have seldom turn'd their feet from glory's chase<br /> To dwell with books, or court the Muse's charms.<br /> Yet, to our eyes if haply time hath brought<br /> Some genuine transcript of their calmer thought,<br /> There still we own the wise, the great, or good;<br /> And Cæsar there and Xenophon are seen,<br /> As clear in spirit and sublime of mien,<br /> As on Pharsalian plains, or by the Assyrian flood.<br /><br /> 2 Say thou too, Frederic, was not this thy aim?<br /> Thy vigils could the student's lamp engage,<br /> Except for this, except that future Fame<br /> Might read thy genius in the faithful page?<br /> That if hereafter Envy shall presume<br /> With words irreverent to inscribe thy tomb,<br /> And baser weeds upon thy palms to fling,<br /> That hence posterity may try thy reign,<br /> Assert thy treaties, and thy wars explain,<br /> And view in native lights the hero and the king.<br /><br /> 3 O evil foresight and pernicious care!<br /> Wilt thou indeed abide by this appeal?<br /> Shall we the lessons of thy pen compare<br /> With private honour or with public zeal?<br /> Whence, then, at things divine those darts of scorn?<br /> Why are the woes, which virtuous men have borne<br /> For sacred truth, a prey to laughter given?<br /> What fiend, what foe of Nature urged thy arm<br /> The Almighty of his sceptre to disarm,<br /> To push this earth adrift and leave it loose from Heaven?<br /><br /> 4 Ye godlike shades of legislators old,<br /> Ye who made Rome victorious, Athens wise,<br /> Ye first of mortals with the bless'd enroll'd,<br /> Say, did not horror in your bosoms rise,<br /> When thus, by impious vanity impell'd,<br /> A magistrate, a monarch, ye beheld<br /> Affronting civil order's holiest bands,<br /> Those bands which ye so labour'd to improve,<br /> Those hopes and fears of justice from above,<br /> Which tamed the savage world to your divine commands?Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-87521398956545301132011-04-09T12:59:00.000-07:002011-04-09T13:02:15.948-07:00The Last Leap<span style="font-style: italic;">By Adam Lindsay Gordon</span><br /><br />All is over! fleet career,<br /> Dash of greyhound slipping thongs,<br /> Flight of falcon, bound of deer,<br /> Mad hoof-thunder in our rear,<br /> Cold air rushing up our lungs,<br /> Din of many tongues.<br /><br /> Once again, one struggle good,<br /> One vain effort;—he must dwell<br /> Near the shifted post, that stood<br /> Where the splinters of the wood,<br /> Lying in the torn tracks, tell<br /> How he struck and fell.<br /><br /> Crest where cold drops beaded cling,<br /> Small ear drooping, nostril full,<br /> Glazing to a scarlet ring,<br /> Flanks and haunches quivering,<br /> Sinews stiff'ning, void and null,<br /> Dumb eyes sorrowful.<br /><br /> Satin coat that seems to shine<br /> Duller now, black braided tress,<br /> That a softer hand than mine<br /> Far away was wont to twine,<br /> That in meadows far from this<br /> Softer lips might kiss.<br /><br /> All is over! this is death,<br /> And I stand to watch thee die,<br /> Brave old horse! with 'bated breath<br /> Hardly drawn through tight-clenched teeth,<br /> Lip indented deep, but eye<br /> Only dull and dry.<br /><br /> Musing on the husk and chaff<br /> Gather'd where life's tares are sown,<br /> Thus I speak, and force a laugh<br /> That is half a sneer and half<br /> An involuntary groan,<br /> In a stifled tone—<br /><br /> "Rest, old friend! thy day, though rife<br /> With its toil, hath ended soon;<br /> We have had our share of strife,<br /> Tumblers in the mask of life,<br /> In the pantomime of noon<br /> Clown and pantaloon.<br /><br /> "With the flash that ends thy pain<br /> Respite and oblivion blest<br /> Come to greet thee. I in vain<br /> Fall: I rise to fall again:<br /> Thou hast fallen to thy rest—<br /> And thy fall is best!"Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-17266071418119623322010-12-27T19:05:00.000-08:002010-12-27T19:12:27.917-08:00On Revisiting The Place Of My Nativity<span style="font-style: italic;">By Robert Bloomfield</span><br /><br />Though Winter's frowns had damp'd the beaming eye,<br />Through Twelve successive Summers heav'd the sigh,<br />The unaccomplish'd wish was still the same;<br />Till May in new and sudden glories came!<br />My heart was rous'd; and Fancy on the wing,<br />Thus heard the language of enchanting Spring:—<br /><br />'Come to thy native groves and fruitful fields!<br />Thou know'st the fragrance that the wild-flow'r yields;<br />Inhale the Breeze that bends the purple bud,<br />And plays along the margin of the Wood.<br />I've cloth'd them all; the very Woods where thou<br />In infancy learn'd'st praise from every bough.<br />Would'st thou behold again the vernal day?<br />My reign is short;—this instant come away:<br />Ere Philomel shall silent meet the morn;<br />She hails the green, but not the rip'ning corn.<br />Come, ere the pastures lose their yellow flow'rs:<br />Come now; with heart as jocund as the hours.'<br /><br />Who could resist the call?—that, Giles had done,<br />Nor heard the Birds, nor seen the rising Sun;<br />Had not Benevolence, with cheering ray,<br />And Greatness stoop'd, indulgent to display<br />Praise which does surely not to Giles belong,<br />But to the objects that inspir'd his song.<br />Immediate pleasure from those praises flow'd:<br />Remoter bliss within his bosom glow'd!<br />Now tasted all:—for I have heard and seen<br />The long-remember'd voice, the church, the green;—<br />And oft by Friendship's gentle hand been led<br />Where many an hospitable board was spread.<br />These would I name,… but each, and all can feel<br />What the full heart would willingly reveal:<br />Nor needs be told; that at each season's birth,<br />Still the enamell'd, or the scorching Earth<br />Gave, as each morn or weary night would come,<br />Ideal sweetness to my distant home:—<br />Ideal now no more;—for, to my view<br />Spring's promise rose, how admirably true!!<br />The early chorus of the cheerful Grove,<br />Gave point to Gratitude; and fire to Love.<br />O Memory! shield me from the World's poor strife;<br />And give those scenes thine everlasting life!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Written At London, May 30, 1800.</span>Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-72418026385095319192010-11-27T21:03:00.000-08:002010-11-27T21:07:36.229-08:00For Deliverance From A Fever<span style="font-style: italic;">By Anne Bradstreet</span><br /><br />When sorrows had begirt me round,<br />And pains within and out,<br />When in my flesh no part was found,<br />Then didst Thou rid me out.<br />My burning flesh in sweat did boil,<br />My aching head did break,<br />From side to side for ease I toil,<br />So faint I could not speak.<br />Beclouded was my soul with fear<br />Of Thy displeasure sore,<br />Nor could I read my evidence<br />Which oft I read before.<br />"Hide not Thy face from me!" I cried,<br />"From burnings keep my soul.<br />Thou know'st my heart, and hast me tried;<br />I on Thy mercies roll."<br />"O heal my soul," Thou know'st I said,<br />"Though flesh consume to nought,<br />What though in dust it shall be laid,<br />To glory t' shall be brought."<br />Thou heard'st, Thy rod Thou didst remove<br />And spared my body frail<br />Thou show'st to me Thy tender love,<br />My heart no more might quail.<br />O, praises to my mighty God,<br />Praise to my Lord, I say,<br />Who hath redeemed my soul from pit,<br />Praises to Him for aye.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-49831830432477877572010-11-14T15:14:00.000-08:002010-11-14T15:51:33.844-08:00The Divine Image<span style="font-style: italic;">By William Blake</span><br /><br />To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,<br />All pray in their distress,<br />And to these virtues of delight<br />Return their thankfulness.<br /><br />For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,<br />Is God our Father dear;<br />And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,<br />Is man, His child and care.<br /><br />For Mercy has a human heart;<br />Pity, a human face;<br />And Love, the human form divine:<br />And Peace, the human dress.<br /><br />Then every man, of every clime,<br />That prays in his distress,<br />Prays to the human form divine:<br />Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.<br /><br />And all must love the human form,<br />In heathen, Turk, or Jew.<br />Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,<br />There God is dwelling too.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Divine Image</span> is a poem by William Blake published in <span style="font-style: italic;">Songs of Innocence</span> in 1789. In this poem Blake pictures his view of an ideal world in which the four traditionally Christian virtues -Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love- are found in the human's heart and stand for God's support and comfort. Joy and gratitude are sentiments expressed through prayer for the caring and blessing of an infallible almighty God and are shared by all men on Earth encompassing a sense of equality and mutual respect.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-48488735085250653722010-11-04T19:37:00.000-07:002010-11-04T19:45:16.136-07:00A Winter Piece<span style="font-style: italic;">By William Cullen Bryant</span><br /><br />The time has been that these wild solitudes,<br />Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me<br />Oftener than now; and when the ills of life<br />Had chafed my spirit—when the unsteady pulse<br />Beat with strange flutterings—I would wander forth<br />And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path<br />Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills,<br />The quiet dells retiring far between,<br />With gentle invitation to explore<br />Their windings, were a calm society<br />That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant<br />Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress<br />Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget<br />The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began<br />To gather simples by the fountain's brink,<br />And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood<br />In nature's loneliness, I was with one<br />With whom I early grew familiar, one<br />Who never had a frown for me, whose voice<br />Never rebuked me for the hours I stole<br />From cares I loved not, but of which the world<br />Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked<br />The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,<br />And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,<br />That met above the merry rivulet,<br />Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still,—they seemed<br />Like old companions in adversity.<br />Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,<br />Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay<br />As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,<br />The village with its spires, the path of streams,<br />And dim receding valleys, hid before<br />By interposing trees, lay visible<br />Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts<br />Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come<br />Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,<br />Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,<br />And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,<br />Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard<br />Love-call of bird, nor merry hum of bee,<br />Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept<br />Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,<br />That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,<br />Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,<br />Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.<br />The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,<br />And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent<br />Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry<br />A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,<br />The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow<br />The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track<br />Of fox, and the racoon's broad path, were there,<br />Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,<br />The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts<br />Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway<br />Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.<br /><br /> But Winter has yet brighter scenes,—he boasts<br />Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;<br />Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods<br />All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains<br />Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;<br />While the slant sun of February pours<br />Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!<br />The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,<br />And the broad arching portals of the grove<br />Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks<br />Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,<br />Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,<br />Is studded with its trembling water-drops,<br />That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.<br />But round the parent stem the long low boughs<br />Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide<br />The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot<br />The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,<br />Deep in the womb of earth—where the gems grow,<br />And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud<br />With amethyst and topaz—and the place<br />Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam<br />That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall<br />Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,<br />And fades not in the glory of the sun;—<br />Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts<br />And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles<br />Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost<br />Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye,—<br />Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;<br />There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud<br />Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams<br />Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,<br />And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,<br />And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;<br />Light without shade. But all shall pass away<br />With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,<br />Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound<br />Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve<br />Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.<br /><br /> And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams<br />Are just set free, and milder suns melt off<br />The plashy snow, save only the firm drift<br />In the deep glen or the close shade of pines,—<br />'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke<br />Roll up among the maples of the hill,<br />Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes<br />The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph,<br />That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops,<br />Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn,<br />Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft,<br />Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe<br />Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air,<br />Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds,<br />Such as you see in summer, and the winds<br />Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft,<br />Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone<br />The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye<br />Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at—<br />Startling the loiterer in the naked groves<br />With unexpected beauty, for the time<br />Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.<br />And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft<br />Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds<br />Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth<br />Shall fall their volleyed stores rounded like hail,<br />And white like snow, and the loud North again<br />Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-77626950936406156912010-10-27T19:26:00.000-07:002010-10-27T19:31:48.824-07:00A Poet To His Beloved<span style="font-style: italic;">By William Butler Yeats</span><br /><br />I bring you with reverent hands<br />The books of my numberless dreams;<br />White woman that passion has worn<br />As the tide wears the dove-gray sands,<br />And with heart more old than the horn<br />That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:<br />White woman with numberless dreams<br />I bring you my passionate rhyme.Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-48116917124910386322010-10-17T17:00:00.000-07:002010-10-17T17:04:32.001-07:00To My Brother George<span style="font-style: italic;">By John Keats</span><br /><br />Many the wonders I this day have seen:<br />The sun, when first he kist away the tears<br />That fill'd the eyes of morn;—the laurel'd peers<br />Who from the feathery gold of evening lean:—<br />The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,<br />Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—<br />Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears<br />Must think on what will be, and what has been.<br />E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,<br />Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping<br />So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,<br />And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.<br />But what, without the social thought of thee,<br />Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8439607220656022357.post-74378453322713626612010-10-04T19:31:00.000-07:002010-10-04T19:35:18.633-07:00Rippling Water<span style="font-style: italic;">By Adam Lindsay Gordon</span><br /><br /> The maiden sat by the river side<br /> (The rippling water murmurs by),<br /> And sadly into the clear blue tide<br /> The salt tear fell from her clear blue eye.<br /> "'Tis fixed for better, for worse," she cried,<br /> "And to-morrow the bridegroom claims the bride.<br /> Oh! wealth and power and rank and pride<br /> Can surely peace and happiness buy.<br /> I was merry, nathless, in my girlhood's hours,<br /> 'Mid the waving grass when the bright sun shone,<br /> Shall I be as merry in Marmaduke's towers?"<br /> (The rippling water murmurs on).<br /><br /> Stephen works for his daily bread<br /> (The rippling water murmurs low).<br /> Through the crazy thatch that covers his head<br /> The rain-drops fall and the wind-gusts blow.<br /> "I'll mend the old roof-tree," so he said,<br /> "And repair the cottage when we are wed."<br /> And my pulses throbb'd, and my cheek grew red,<br /> When he kiss'd me—that was long ago.<br /> Stephen and I, should we meet again,<br /> Not as we've met in days that are gone,<br /> Will my pulses throb with pleasure or pain?<br /> (The rippling water murmurs on).<br /><br /> Old Giles, the gardener, strok'd my curls<br /> (The rippling water murmurs past),<br /> Quoth he, "In laces and silks and pearls<br /> My child will see her reflection cast;<br /> Now I trust in my heart that your lord will be<br /> Kinder to you than he was to me,<br /> When I lay in the gaol, and my children three,<br /> With their sickly mother, kept bitter fast."<br /> With Marmaduke now my will is law,<br /> Marmaduke's will may be law anon;<br /> Does the sheath of velvet cover the claw?<br /> (The rippling water murmurs on).<br /><br /> Dame Martha patted me on the cheek<br /> (The rippling water murmurs low),<br /> Saying, "There are words that I fain would speak—<br /> Perhaps they were best unspoken though;<br /> I can't persuade you to change your mind,<br /> And useless warnings are scarcely kind,<br /> And I may be foolish as well as blind,<br /> But take my blessing whether or no."<br /> Dame Martha's wise, though her hair is white,<br /> Her sense is good, though her sight is gone—<br /> Can she really be gifted with second sight?<br /> (The rippling water murmurs on).<br /><br /> Brian of Hawksmede came to our cot<br /> (The rippling water murmurs by),<br /> Scatter'd the sods of our garden plot,<br /> Riding his roan horse recklessly;<br /> Trinket and token and tress of hair,<br /> He flung them down at the door-step there,<br /> Said, "Elsie! ask your lord, if you dare,<br /> Who gave him the blow as well as the lie."<br /> That evening I mentioned Brian's name,<br /> And Marmaduke's face grew white and wan,<br /> Am I pledged to one of a spirit so tame?<br /> (The rippling water murmurs on).<br /><br /> Brian is headstrong, rash, and vain<br /> (The rippling water murmurs still),<br /> Stephen is somewhat duller of brain,<br /> Slower of speech, and milder of will;<br /> Stephen must toil a living to gain,<br /> Plough and harrow and gather the grain;<br /> Brian has little enough to maintain<br /> The station in life which he needs must fill;<br /> Both are fearless and kind and frank,<br /> But we can't win all gifts under the sun—<br /> What have I won save riches and rank?<br /> (The rippling water murmurs on).<br /><br /> Riches and rank, and what beside?<br /> (The rippling water murmurs yet),<br /> The mansion is stately, the manor is wide,<br /> Their lord for a while may pamper and pet;<br /> Liveried lackeys may jeer aside,<br /> Though the peasant girl is their master's bride,<br /> At her shyness, mingled with awkward pride,—<br /> 'Twere folly for trifles like these to fret;<br /> But the love of one that I cannot love,<br /> Will it last when the gloss of his toy is gone?<br /> Is there naught beyond, below, or above?<br /> (The rippling water murmurs on).Bill Robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01448025871367271802noreply@blogger.com0