The Power Of The Spoken Word

vakkuvalana galugu paramagu mokhambu
vakkuvalana galugu varalu ghanata
vakkuvalana galugu nekkudaiswaryambu
viswadhabhirama vinura vema

by Vemana.

The Death Of The Fly

WITH eagerness he drinks the treach'rous potion,

Nor stops to rest, by the first taste misled;
Sweet is the draught, but soon all power of motion

He finds has from his tender members fled;
No longer has he strength to plume his wing,
No longer strength to raise his head, poor thing!
E'en in enjoyment's hour his life he loses,
His little foot to bear his weight refuses;
So on he sips, and ere his draught is o'er,
Death veils his thousand eyes for evermore.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

To The Right Honourable Lady Charlotte Gordon

Why, Lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow
With the dread semblance of that warlike helm,
That nodding plume, and wreathe of various glow,
That graced the chiefs of Scotia's ancient realm?

Thou know'st that virtue is of power the source,
And all her magic to thy eyes is given;
We own their empire, while we feel their force,
Beaming with the benignity of heaven.

The plumy helmet, and the martial mien,
Might dignify Minerva's awful charms;
But more resistless far th' Idalian queen -
Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.

by James Beattie.

To Her Father With Some Verses

Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,
If worth in me or ought I do appear,
Who can of right better demand the same
Than may your worthy self from whom it came?
The principal might yield a greater sum,
Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb;
My stock's so small I know not how to pay,
My bond remains in force unto this day;
Yet for part payment take this simple mite,
Where nothing's to be had, kings loose their right.
Such is my debt I may not say forgive,
But as I can, I'll pay it while I live;
Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,
Yet paying is not paid until I die.

by Anne Bradstreet.

The Lilies Of The Field

Flowers! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty; when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts He drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky;
Then, in the bosom of your purity
A voice He set as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by,
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.
And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day care is drown'd,
And the loud steps of vain, unlistening haste;
Yet the great Ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hush'd hour,
Than yours, meek lilies! - chosen thus and graced.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

O Wondrous Dreamer, With Thy Power Divine,

O Wondrous dreamer, with thy power divine,
How all our pilgrim-life thy dream hath told
Our load of sin, our hopes, our doubts so cold,
The fearful battle with the foe malign;
And Beulah's beauteous land, where none repine
We long to see ; we dare with joy ' be bold,'
While we with thee in living faith behold
The New Jerusalem on high to shine.
When, as thy gaze beyond the gates did pass,
Which open'd wide to let thy pilgrims in,
And thou didst feast thine eyes, oft filled with tears,
Well may we feel that thou could'st wish, alas !
That thou had'st done with this world's care and sin,
To rest amid that throng for endless years.

by John Bunyan.

Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old;
Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith,
'Ye hills, put on your gold.'

The song of Homer liveth,
Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras,
O'er realms of suns is spread.

But Babylon and Memphis
Are letters traced in dust;
Read them, earth's tyrants I ponder well
The might in which ye trust!

They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded;
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.

Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice,
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
And work with God's right hand.

by Ebenezer Elliott.

Design And Performance

o

They float before my soul, the fair designs
Which I would body forth to life and power,
Like clouds that with their wavering hues and lines
Portray majestic building--dome and tower,
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower
Points to the unchanging stars; and high arcade,
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar made
For holiest rites.
Meanwhile the waning hour
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams overwrought
I sink. O friend! O linked with each high thought!
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain
All I may grasp; until thou seest fulfilled,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!




o

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

Rhymed Distichs

WHO trusts in God,
Fears not His rod.
---
THIS truth may be by all believed:
Whom God deceives, is well deceived.
---
HOW? when? and where?-No answer comes from high;
Thou wait'st for the Because, and yet thou ask'st not Why?
---
IF the whole is ever to gladden thee,
That whole in the smallest thing thou must see.
---
WATER its living strength first shows,
When obstacles its course oppose.
---
TRANSPARENT appears the radiant air,
Though steel and stone in its breast it may bear;
At length they'll meet with fiery power,
And metal and stones on the earth will shower.
---
WHATE'ER a living flame may surround,
No longer is shapeless, or earthly bound.
'Tis now invisible, flies from earth,
And hastens on high to the place of its birth.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

The Hawthorn Bower

Palemnon, in the hawthorn bower,
With fond impatience lay,
He counted every anxious hour
That stretch'd the tedious day.

The rosy dawn, Pastora nam'd,
And vow'd that she'd be kind;
But ah! the setting sun proclaim'd
That woman's vows are-wind.

The fickle sex, the boy defy'd!
And swore, in terms profane,
That beauty in her brightest pride
Might sue to him in vain.

When Delia from the neighb'ring glade
Appear'd in all her charms,
Each angry vow Palemon made
Was lost in Delia's arms.

The lovers had not long reclin'd
Before Pastora came;
'Inconstancy,' she cry'd, 'I find
In every heart's the same.

'For young Alexis sigh'd and press'd,
With such bewitching power,
I quite forgot the wishing guest
That waited in the bower.'

by John Cunningham.

Lord, Teach Us How To Pray Aright

Lord, teach us how to pray aright,
With reverence and with fear;
Though dust and ashes in Thy sight,
We may, we must draw near.

We perish if we cease from prayer;
O grant us power to pray;
And when to meet Thee we prepare,
Lord, meet us by the way.

God of all grace, we come to Thee
With broken, contrite hearts;
Give what Thine eye delights to see,
Truth in the inward parts.

Faith is the only sacrifice
That can for sin atone;
To cast our hopes, to fix our eyes,
On Christ, on Christ alone.

Patience to watch, and wait, and weep,
Though mercy long delay;
Courage our fainting souls to keep,
And trust Thee though Thou slay.

Give these, and then Thy will be done,
Thus, strengthened with all might,
We, through Thy Spirit and Thy Son,
Shall pray, and pray aright.

by James Montgomery.

LIBERAL Nature did dispence
To all things Arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sin'ewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard Hoofs, or forked claws,
And some with Horns, or tusked jaws.
And some with Scales, and some with Wings,
And some with Teeth, and some with Stings.
Wisdom to Man she did afford,
Wisdom for Shield, and Wit for Sword.
What to beauteous Woman-kind,
What Arms, what Armour has she'assigne'd?
Beauty is both; for with the Faire
What Arms, what Armour can compare?
What Steel, what Gold, or Diamond,
More Impassible is found?
And yet what Flame, what Lightning ere
So great an Active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart
Like Porcupines from every part.
Who can, alas, their strength express,
Arm'd when they themselves undress,
Cap a pe* with Nakedness?

by Abraham Cowley.

The Force Of Habit

A little child, who had desired
To go and see the Park guns fired,
Was taken by his maid that way
Upon the next rejoicing day.
Soon as the unexpected stroke
Upon his tender organs broke,
Confused and stunned at the report,
He to her arms fled for support,
And begged to be conveyed at once
Out of the noise of those great guns,
Those naughty guns, whose only sound
Would kill (he said) without a wound:
So much of horror and offence
The shock had given his infant sense.


Yet this was he in after days
Who filled the world with martial praise,
When from the English quarter-deck
His steady courage swayed the wreck
Of hostile fleets, disturbed no more
By all that vast conflicting roar,
That sky and sea did seem to tear,
When vessels whole blew up in air,
Than at the smallest breath that heaves,
When Zephyr hardly stirs the leaves.

by Charles Lamb.

O Spirit Of The Living God

O Spirit of the living God,
In all Thy plenitude of grace,
Where’er the foot of man hath trod,
Descend on our apostate race.

Give tongues of fire and hearts of love
To preach the reconciling Word,
Give power and unction from above,
Whene’er the joyful sound is heard.

Be darkness, at Thy coming, light;
Confusion, order in Thy path;
Souls without strength inspire with might;
Bid mercy triumph over wrath.

O Spirit of the Lord, prepare
All the round earth her God to meet;
Breathe Thou abroad like morning air,
Till hearts of stone begin to beat.

Baptize the nations; far and nigh
The triumphs of the cross record;
The Name of Jesus glorify,
Till every kindred call Him Lord.

God from eternity hath willed
All flesh shall His salvation see:
So be the Father’s love fulfilled,
The Savior’s sufferings crowned through Thee.

by James Montgomery.

To Those Who Loved Her

Though gentle, loving, pure, and fair
A little maid of promise rare,
Who might in life's eventful race
Have won a bright and envied place—
Weep not for her.

Had she been granted length of life,
Her golden hair with beauty rife,
With which you fondly lov'd to play.
Care might have early ting'd with grey—
Weep not for her.

In paths not those prescribed by God,
With daring feet she might have trod.
With sin's dark dyes her soul have stained.
And ne'er a heavenly home have gain'd—
Weep not for her.

Tears might have dimm'd her sparkling eye.
Which you'd have lack'd the power to dry,
Though yearning to extract the dart
That rankled in her wounded heart—
Weep not for her.

Deep furrows too, in her smooth brow
Might have been cut by Griefs stem plough ;
But her life's glass has run its sands,
And safe she dwells with angel bands—
Weep not for her.

by John Bradford.

To The Memory Of Mr Oldham

Farewell, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own;
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
While his young friend performed and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what Nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betrayed.
Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime,
Still showed a quickness; and maturing time
But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme.
Once more, hail and farewell! farewell, thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!
Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

by John Dryden.

Inscription On The Monument Of A Newfoundland Dog

When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart, is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth,
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,--and here he lies.

by George Gordon Byron.

In The Valley Of The Waters We Wept O'Er The Day

When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart, is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth,
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,--and here he lies.

by George Gordon Byron.

IN His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes making his vocation;
The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
Love, confidence, activity, and might;
In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
Unknown is ever in Reality:
As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
Thou findest but the known resembling Him;
How high so'er thy fiery spirit hovers,
Its simile and type it straight discovers
Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,
Where'er thou goest, smiling is the way;
No more thou numbrest, reckonest no time,
Each step is infinite, each step sublime.

-----
WHAT God would outwardly alone control,
And on his finger whirl the mighty Whole?
He loves the inner world to move, to view
Nature in Him, Himself in Nature too,
So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,
The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.

-----
WITHIN us all a universe doth dwell;
And hence each people's usage laudable,
That ev'ry one the Best that meets his eyes
As God, yea e'en his God, doth recognise;
To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he,
Fears Him, and loves Him too, if that may be.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou proud-rolling Ocean,
And Fancy surveys thee with solemn delight;
When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion,
And the tempest is roused by the spirits of night !

When the moon-beams thro' winter-clouds faintly appearing,
At intervals gleam on the dark-swelling wave;
And the mariner, dubious, now hoping, now fearing,
May hear the stern Genius of hurricanes rave !

But now, when thine anger has long been subsiding,
And the tempest has folded the might of its wing;
How clear is thy surface, in loveliness gliding,
For April has opened the portals of spring !

Now soft on thy bosom the orient is beaming,
And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On thy mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming,
And morning and glory the picture have drest !

No gale but the balmy Favonian is blowing,
In coral-caves resting, the winds are asleep;
And, rich in the sun-beam, yon pendants are glowing,
That tinge with their colours the silvery deep !

Yet smile or be dreadful, thou still-changing Ocean,
Tremendous or lovely, resistless or still;
I view thee adoring, with hallow'd emotion,
The Power that can hush or arouse thee at will !

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

From Faust - Ii. Prologue In Heaven

THE ARCHANGELS' SONG.

RAPHAEL.

THE sun still chaunts, as in old time,

With brother-spheres in choral song,
And with his thunder-march sublime

Moves his predestined course along.
Strength find the angels in his sight,

Though he by none may fathomed be;
Still glorious is each work of might

As when first form'd in majesty.

GABRIEL.

And swift and swift, in wondrous guise,

Revolves the earth in splendour bright,
The radiant hues of Paradise

Alternating with deepest night.
From out the gulf against the rock,

In spreading billows foams the ocean,--
And cliff and sea with mighty shock,

The spheres whirl round in endless motion.

MICHAEL.

And storms in emulation growl

From land to sea, from sea to land,
And fashion, as they wildly howl,

A circling, wonder-working band.
Destructive flames in mad career

Precede Thy thunders on their way;
Yet, Lord, Thy messengers revere

The soft mutations of Thy day.

THE THREE.

Strength find the angels in Thy sight,

Though none may hope to fathom Thee;
Still glorious are Thy works of might,

As when first form'd in majesty.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sing
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air--
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

by William Cullen Bryant.

The National Paintings

Awake,ye forms of verse divine!
Painting! descend on canvas wing,-
And hover o'er my head, Design!
Your son, your glorious son, I sing;
At Trumbull's name I break my sloth,
To load him with poetic riches:
The Titian of a table-cloth!
The Guido of a pair of breeches!

Come, star-eyed maid, Equality!
In thine adorer's praise I revel;
Who brings, so fierce his love to thee,
All forms and faces to a level:
Old, young, great, small, the grave, the gay,
Each man might swear the next his brother,
And there they stand in dread array,
To fire their votes at one another.

How bright their buttons shine! how straight
Their coat-flaps fall in plaited grace!
How smooth the hair on every pate!
How vacant each immortal face!
And then the tints, the shade, the flush,
(I wrong them with a strain too humble),
Not mighty Sherred's strength of brush
Can match thy glowing hues, my Trumbull!

Go on, great painter! dare be dull-
No longer after Nature dangle;
Call rectilinear beautiful;
Find grace and freedom in an angle;
Pour on the red, the green, the yellow,
'Paint till a horse may mire upon it,'
And, while I 've strength to write or bellow,
I 'll sound your praises in a sonnet.

by Joseph Rodman Drake.

All Authority Is Subject To My Lord

What a marvelous creator is my Lord:
All authority is subject to my Lord

All the holy ones of old you may recall,
Unsurpassed in excellence is still my Lord

نه يې هيڅ حاجت په چا باندې موقوف دى
نه د هيچا منت بار دى رب زما

Nothing does He need or want from anyone,
Seeking favours none should reckon with my Lord

Out of nothing He created everything,
He sustains and nourishes it all, my Lord

Like an artist He perfectly formed all things,
Yet he harks to all the man would speak, My Lord

Of the unimagined in this time and space
Very essence, very fragrance is my Lord

Of all structures in this world and in the next
Peerless architect and builder is my Lord

All the pages not yet written, He has read,
Perfect knowledge of all secrets has my Lord

Be it hidden, manifest or half obscured,
Cognizant of any matter is my Lord

No one is a partner in His government,
As an absolute dictator reigns my Lord

List his oneness be considered poverty:
In His unity abundant is my Lord

Fellowship with anyone they do not need,
Who have found a lasting friendship with my Lord

Why should I go anywhere in search of Him?
Right beside me in my cottage is my Lord

He is never liable to change, RAHMAN,
In eternity remains unchanged my Lord

by Rahman Baba.

Done Aug. 8. 1653. Terzetti.


Why do the Gentiles tumult, and the Nations
Muse a vain thing, the Kings of th'earth upstand
With power, and Princes in their Congregations
Lay deep their plots together through each Land,
Against the Lord and his Messiah dear.
Let us break off; say they, by strength of hand
Their bonds, and cast from us, no more to wear,
Their twisted cords: he who in Heaven doth dwell
Shall laugh, the Lord shall scoff them, then severe
Speak to them in his wrath, and in his fell
And fierce ire trouble them; but I saith hee
Anointed have my King (though ye rebell)
On Sion my holi' hill. A firm decree
I will declare; the Lord to me hath say'd
Thou art my Son I have begotten thee
This day, ask of me, and the grant is made;
As thy possession I on thee bestow
Th'Heathen, and as thy conquest to be sway'd
Earths utmost bounds: them shalt thou bring full low
With Iron Sceptir bruis'd, and them disperse
Like to a potters vessel shiver'd so.
And now be wise at length ye Kings averse
Be taught ye Judges of the earth; with fear
Jehovah serve and let your joy converse
With trembling; Kiss the Son least he appear
In anger and ye perish in the way
If once his wrath take fire like fuel sere.
Happy all those who have in him their stay.

by John Milton.

Such, Such Is He Who Pleaseth Me

FLY, dearest, fly! He is not nigh!

He who found thee one fair morn in Spring

In the wood where thou thy flight didst wing.
Fly, dearest, fly! He is not nigh!
Never rests the foot of evil spy.

Hark! flutes' sweet strains and love's refrains

Reach the loved one, borne there by the wind,

In the soft heart open doors they find.
Hark! flutes' sweet strains and love's refrains,
Hark!--yet blissful love their echo pains.

Erect his head, and firm his tread,

Raven hair around his smooth brow strays,

On his cheeks a Spring eternal plays.
Erect his head, and firm his tread,
And by grace his ev'ry step is led.

Happy his breast, with pureness bless'd,

And the dark eyes 'neath his eyebrows placed,

With full many a beauteous line are graced.
Happy his breast, with pureness bless'd,
Soon as seen, thy love must be confess'd.

His mouth is red--its power I dread,

On his lips morn's fragrant incense lies,

Round his lips the cooling Zephyr sighs.
His mouth is red--its power I dread,
With one glance from him, all sorrow's fled.

His blood is true, his heart bold too,

In his soft arms, strength, protection, dwells

And his face with noble pity swells.
His blood is true, his heart bold too,
Blest the one whom those dear arms may woo!

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives, and him who dies.

'Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see:
Forgetful of its struggles past,
E’en Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish?for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
And women's tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,
Without regret, without a groan;
For thousands Death hath ceas’d to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.

'Ay, but to die, and go,' alas!
Where all have gone, and all must go!
To be the nothing that I was
Ere born to life and living woe!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
'Tis something better not to be.

by George Gordon Byron.

Lines Addressed To A Young Lady

Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,
And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.

Surely some envious demon's force,
Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour
The ball obey'd some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn'd the death aside.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted fromn its glistening cell:

Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage done to thee?
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?

Might I perform the judge's part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart
Which but belong'd to thee before.

The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me.

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt;
Come then, some other mode elect;
Let it be death, or what thou wilt.

Choose then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.

by George Gordon Byron.

To The King On His Navy

Where'er thy navy spreads her canvas wings,
Homage to thee, and peace to all, she brings:
The French and Spaniard, when thy flags appear,
Forget their hatred, and consent to fear.
So Jove from Ida did both hosts survey,
And when he pleas'd to thunder, part the fray.
Ships heretofore in seas like fishes sped,
The mightiest still upon the smallest fed:
Thou on the deep imposest nobler laws,
And by that justice hast remov'd the cause
Of those rude tempests, which, for rapine sent,
Too oft, alas, involv'd the innocent.
Now shall the ocean, as thy Thames, be free
From both those fates, of storms and piracy.
But we most happy, who can fear no force
But winged troops, or Pegasean horse:
'Tis not so hard for greedy foes to spoil
Another nation, as to touch our soil.
Should Nature's self invade the world again,
And o'er the centre spread the liquid main,
Thy power were safe; and her destructive hand
Would but enlarge the bounds of thy command:
Thy dreadful fleet would style thee lord of all,
And ride in triumph o'er the drowned ball:
Those towers of oak o'er fertile plains might go,
And visit mountains, where they once did grow.

The world's restorer once could not endure,
That finish'd Babel should those men secure,
Whose pride design'd that fabric to have stood
Above the reach of any second flood:
To thee His chosen, more indulgent, He
Dares trust such power with so much piety.

by Edmund Waller.

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.

~ Psalm cvii. 23, 24.


HE that in venturous barks hath been
A wanderer on the deep,
Can tell of many an awful scene,
Where storms for ever sweep.

For many a fair, majestic sight
Hath met his wandering eye,
Beneath the streaming northern light,
Or blaze of Indian sky.

Go! ask him of the whirlpool's roar,
Whose echoing thunder peals
Loud, as if rushed along the shore
An army's chariot wheels;

Of icebergs, floating o'er the main,
Or fixed upon the coast,
Like glittering citadel or fane,
'Mid the bright realms of frost;

Of coral rocks, from waves below
In steep ascent that tower,
And fraught with peril, daily grow,
Formed by an insect's power;

Of sea-fires, which at dead of night
Shine o'er the tides afar,
And make th' expanse of ocean bright
As heaven, with many a star.

Oh God! thy name they well may praise,
Who to the deep go down,
And trace the wonders of thy ways,
Where rocks and billows frown.

If glorious be that awful deep,
No human power can bind,
What then art Thou, who bidst it keep
Within its bounds confined!

Let heaven and earth in praise unite,
Eternal praise to Thee,
Whose word can rouse the tempest's might,
Or still the raging sea!

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices;–by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers,
Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words.
While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move,
And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around;
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!–thou art ev'n as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie:
Unseen awhile they sleep–till, touch'd by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

The Thunderstorm

DEEP, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky,
Dead stillness reigns in air,
There is not e'en a breeze, on high
The gossamer to bear.

The woods are hushed, the waves at rest,
The lake is dark and still,
Reflecting, on its shadowy breast,
Each form of rock and hill.

The lime-leaf waves not in the grove,
Nor rose-tree in the bower;
The birds have ceased their songs of love,
Awed by the threatening hour.

'T is noon;–yet nature's calm profound
Seems as at midnight deep;
–But hark! what peal of awful sound
Breaks on creation's sleep?

The thunder bursts!–its rolling might
Seems the firm hills to shake;
And in terrific splendor bright,
The gathered lightnings break.

Yet fear not, shrink not thou, my child!
Though by the bolt's descent
Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled,
And the wide forests rent.

Doth not thy God behold thee still,
With all-surveying eye?
Doth not his power all nature fill,
Around, beneath, on high?

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free,
To track the realms of air,
Thou couldst not reach a spot where He
Would not be with thee there!

In the wide city's peopled towers,
On the vast ocean's plains,
'Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers,
Alike th' Almighty reigns!

Then fear not, though the angry sky
A thousand darts should cast;–
Why should we tremble, e'en to die,
And be with Him at last?

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

Life Of The Blessed

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.


Region of life and light!
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er!
Nor frost nor heat may blight
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore,
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore!

There without crook or sling,
Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red
Round his meek temples cling;
And to sweet pastures led,
His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.

He guides, and near him they
Follow delighted, for he makes them go
Where dwells eternal May,
And heavenly roses blow,
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good,
And fountains of delight;
And where his feet have stood
Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies,
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,
With all his flock around,
He witches the still air with numerous sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth
Immortal harmonies, of power to still
All passions born of earth,
And draw the ardent will
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, oh love! in thee.

Ah! then my soul should know,
Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day,
And from this place of woe
Released, should take its way
To mingle with thy flock and never stray.

by William Cullen Bryant.

From Faust - I. Dedication

YE shadowy forms, again ye're drawing near,

So wont of yore to meet my troubled gaze!
Were it in vain to seek to keep you here?

Loves still my heart that dream of olden days?
Oh, come then! and in pristine force appear,

Parting the vapor mist that round me plays!
My bosom finds its youthful strength again,
Feeling the magic breeze that marks your train.

Ye bring the forms of happy days of yore,

And many a shadow loved attends you too;
Like some old lay, whose dream was well nigh o'er,

First-love appears again, and friendship true;
Upon life's labyrinthine path once more

Is heard the sigh, and grief revives anew;
The friends are told, who, in their hour of pride,
Deceived by fortune, vanish'd from my side.

No longer do they hear my plaintive song,

The souls to whom I sang in life's young day;
Scatter'd for ever now the friendly throng,

And mute, alas! each sweet responsive lay.
My strains but to the careless crowd belong,

Their smiles but sorrow to my heart convey;
And all who heard my numbers erst with gladness,
If living yet, roam o'er the earth in sadness.

Long buried yearnings in my breast arise,

Yon calm and solemn spirit-realm to gain;
Like the AEONIAN harp's sweet melodies,

My murmuring song breathes forth its changeful strain.
A trembling seizes me, tears fill mine eyes,

And softer grows my rugged heart amain.
All I possess far distant seems to be,
The vanish'd only seems reality.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

As loving hind that (hartless) wants her deer,
Scuds through the woods and fern with hark'ning ear,
Perplext, in every bush and nook doth pry,
Her dearest deer, might answer ear or eye;
So doth my anxious soul, which now doth miss
A dearer dear (far dearer heart) than this.
Still wait with doubts, and hopes, and failing eye,
His voice to hear or person to descry.
Or as the pensive dove doth all alone
(On withered bough) most uncouthly bemoan
The absence of her love and loving mate,
Whose loss hath made her so unfortunate,
Ev'n thus do I, with many a deep sad groan,
Bewail my turtle true, who now is gone,
His presence and his safe return still woos,
With thousand doleful sighs and mournful coos.
Or as the loving mullet, that true fish,
Her fellow lost, nor joy nor life do wish,
But launches on that shore, there for to die,
Where she her captive husband doth espy.
Mine being gone, I lead a joyless life,
I have a loving peer, yet seem no wife;
But worst of all, to him can't steer my course,
I here, he there, alas, both kept by force.
Return my dear, my joy, my only love,
Unto thy hind, thy mullet, and thy dove,
Who neither joys in pasture, house, nor streams,
The substance gone, O me, these are but dreams.
Together at one tree, oh let us browse,
And like two turtles roost within one house,
And like the mullets in one river glide,
Let's still remain but one, till death divide.
Thy loving love and dearest dear,
At home, abroad, and everywhere

by Anne Bradstreet.

The Waning Moon

I've watched too late; the morn is near;
One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die!

Even while your glow is on the cheek,
And scarce the high pursuit begun,
The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak,
The task of life is left undone.

See where upon the horizon's brim,
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars;
The waning moon, all pale and dim,
Goes up amid the eternal stars.

Late, in a flood of tender light,
She floated through the ethereal blue,
A softer sun, that shone all night
Upon the gathering beads of dew.

And still thou wanest, pallid moon!
The encroaching shadow grows apace;
Heaven's everlasting watchers soon
Shall see thee blotted from thy place.

Oh, Night's dethroned and crownless queen!
Well may thy sad, expiring ray
Be shed on those whose eyes have seen
Hope's glorious visions fade away.

Shine thou for forms that once were bright,
For sages in the mind's eclipse,
For those whose words were spells of might,
But falter now on stammering lips!

In thy decaying beam there lies
Full many a grave on hill and plain,
Of those who closed their dying eyes
In grief that they had lived in vain.

Another night, and thou among
The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine,
All rayless in the glittering throng
Whose lustre late was quenched in thine.

Yet soon a new and tender light
From out thy darkened orb shall beam,
And broaden till it shines all night
On glistening dew and glimmering stream.

by William Cullen Bryant.

Lines Written Beneath An Elm In The Churchyard Of Harrow On The Hill, Sept. 2, 1807

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scattered far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine.
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as the gently swell,
'Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!'

When fate shall chill, at length, this fevered breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,—
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,—
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell.
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to die—
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretched beneath this mantling shade,
Pressed by the turf where once my childhood played;
Wrapped by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mixed with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved;
Blest by the tongues that charmed my youthful ear,
Mourned by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those in early days allied,
And unremembered by the world beside.

by George Gordon Byron.

Ossian's Hymn To The Sun

O Thou whose beams the sea-gift earth array,
King of the sky, and father of the day!
O sun! what fountain hid from human eyes,
Supplies thy circle round the radiant skies,
For ever burning and for ever bright,
With heaven's pure fire, and everlasting light?
What awful beauty in thy face appears!
Immortal youth, beyond the power of years!

When gloomy darkness to thy reign resigns,
And from the gate of morn thy glory shines,
The conscious stars are put to sudden flight,
And all the planets hide their heads in night:
The queen of heaven forsakes th' ethereal plain,
To sink inglorious in the western main.
The clouds refulgent deck thy golden throne,
High in the heavens, immortal and alone!
Who can abide the brightness of thy face!
Or who attend thee in thy rapid race!
The mountain oaks, like their own leaves decay;
Themselves the mountains wear with age away;
The boundless main that rolls from land to land,
Lessens at times, and leaves a waste of sand:
The silver moon, refulgent lamp of night,
Is lost in heaven, and emptied of her light;
But thou for ever shalt endure the same,
Thy light eternal, and unspent thy flame.

When tempests with their train impend on high,
Darken the day, and load the labouring sky;
When heaven's wide convex glows with lightnings dire,
All ether flaming, and all earth on fire:
When loud and long the deep-mouth'd thunder rolls,
And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles;
It from the opening clouds thy form appears,
Her wonted charm the force of nature wears;
Thy beauteous orb restores departed day,
Looks from the sky, and laughs the storm away.

by John Logan.

Corinne At The Capitol

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll'd
Where the conqueror's pass'd of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,
Touch'd with many a gem-like stain.

Thou hast gain'd the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre;
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!

Now afar it rolls-it dies-
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touched as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.

Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown'd of Rome!-Oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?-
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

The Travelled Oyster

An oyster, upon oozy bed,
Like his forefathers, born and bred,
It chanced, was wafted far and wide
By force of wind and force of tide;
Nor are there wanting folk to say
He drifted fairly round the bay.
At last he drifted back agen;
The very finest one might ken
Of travelled oyster-gentlemen.
For, though ne'er out of his own shell,
He saw, or thought he saw, as well,
And was, or deemed himself, as wise
As fishes who use fins and eyes.
In secret news he yields to none;
Knows all the deeds by muscles done;

'Mong limpets what dark plots are hatching,
What territory prawns are snatching;
And has—from information—glimpse
Of coming war among the shrimps.
On all who hap within his reach,
(For 'tis his darling pride to teach)
He rolls that tongue which none may quell;
While every brother of the shell
Is sadly bound to stand the shock,
Chained, like Prometheus, to his rock.

And, Reader! we have seen, I wis,
Full many a dull-brained fish like this,
Who, having drifted Europe round,
Floats back at last to his old ground;
And though, like oyster, shut within
His sulky shell, he nought hath seen,
Yet still, in right of foreign travel,
Assumes to talk—instruct and cavil.
Speak of a church—he quotes Saint Peter's;
A watch—he cites Breguet's repeaters;
And e'en the trout, on which we dine,
Would have been better from the Rhine;

While we, chair-bound and wretched quite,
Are forced to feign a mien polite.

Good Reader! were it ours to choose,
Such ne'er should quit their native ooze;
Or ne'er, at least, should hit the track
Which brings them, for our torture, back.

by John Kenyon.