Great poems by the masters

[B. Royce 0]

Here Swinburne praises Dumas.

The Centenary of Alexander Dumas

Sound or trumpets blowing down the merriest winds of morn,

Flash of hurtless lightnings, laugh of thunders loud and glad,

Here should hail the summer day whereon a light was born

Whence the sun grew brighter, seeing the world less dark and sad.

Man of men by right divine of boyhood everlasting,

France incarnate, France immortal in her deathless boy,

Brighter birthday never shone than thine on earth, forecasting

More of strenuous mirth in manhood, more of manful joy.

Child of warriors, friend of warriors, Garibaldi's friend,

Even thy name is as the splendour of a sunbright sword:

While the boy's heart beats in man, thy fame shall find not end:

Time and dark oblivion bow down before thee as their lord.

Youth acclaims thee gladdest of the gods that gild his days:

Age gives thanks for thee, and death lacks heart to quench thy praise.

[B. Royce 0]

Here Swinburne praises Voltaire.

Lucifer

Voltaire, our England's lover, man divine

Beyond all Gods that ever fear adored

By right and might, by sceptre and by sword,

By godlike love of sunlike truth, made thine

Through godlike hate of falsehood's marshlight shine,

And all the fume of creeds and deeds abhorred

Whose light was darkness, till the dawn-star soared,

Truth, reason, mercy, justice, keep thy shrine

Sacred in memory's temple, seeing that none

Of all souls born to strive before the sun

Loved ever good or hated evil more.

The snake that felt thy heel upon her head,

Night's first-born, writhes as though she were not dead,

But strikes not, stings not, slays not as before.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is one Swinburne's beautiful poems about children.

A Clasp Of Hands

Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers

That bask in heavenly heat

When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,

Soft, small, and sweet.

A babe's hands open as to greet

The tender touch of ours

And mock with motion faint and fleet

The minutes of the new strange hours

That earth, not heaven, must mete;

Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers,

Soft, small, and sweet.

A velvet vice with springs of steel

That fasten in a trice

And clench the fingers fast that feel

A velvet vice---

What man would risk the danger twice,

Nor quake from head to heel?

Whom would not one such test suffice?

Well may we tremble as we kneel

In sight of Paradise,

If both a babe's closed fists conceal

A velvet vice.

Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,

Two creased and dimpled wrists,

That match, if mottled overmuch,

Two flower-soft fists----

What heart of man dare hold the lists

Against such odds and such

Sweet vantage as no strength resists?

Our strength is all a broken crutch,

Our eyes are dim with mists,

Our hearts are prisoners as we touch

Two flower-soft fists.

[B. Royce 0]

In his long ode, Athens, written in 1881, Swinburne was speaking to Englishmen. Now, a century and a quarter later, he speaks to us as well. I present in part---

Athens

Pride have all men in their fathers that were free before them,

In the warriors that begat us free-born pride have we:

But the fathers of their spirits, how may men adore them,

With what rapture may we praise, who bade our souls be free?

Sons of Athens born in spirit and truth are all born free men;

Most of all we, nurtured where the north wind holds his reign:

Children all we sea-folk of the Salaminian seamen,

Sons of them that beat back Persia they that beat back Spain.

Ye that bear the name about you of her glory,

Men that wear the sign of Greeks upon you sealed,

Yours is yet the choice to write yourselves in story

Sons of them that fought the Marathonian field.

Slaves of no man were ye, said your warrior poet,

Neither subject unto man as underlings:

Yours is now the season here wherein to show it,

If the seed of ye be of them that knew not kings.

If ye be not, swords nor words alike found brittle

From the dust of death to save you shall prevail:

Subject swords and dead men's words may stead you little,

If their old king-hating heart within you fail.

If your spirit of old, and not your bonds, be broken,

If the kingless heart be molten in your breasts,

By what signs and wonders, by what word or token,

Shall ye drive the vultures from your eagles' nests?

All the gains of tyrants Freedom counts for losses;

Nought of all the work done holds she worth the work,

When the slaves whose faith is set on crowns and crosses

Drive the Cossack bear against the tiger Turk.

Neither cross nor crown nor crescent shall ye bow to,

Nought of Araby nor Jewry, priest nor king:

As your watchword was of old, so be it now too:

As from lips long stilled, from yours let healing spring.

Through the fights of old, your battle-cry was healing,

And the Saviour that ye called on was the Sun:

Dawn by dawn behold in heaven your God, revealing

Light from darkness as when Marathon was won.

Gods were yours yet strange to Turk or Galilean,

Light and Wisdom only then as gods adored:

Pallas was your shield, your comforter was Paean,

From your bright world's navel spake the Sun your Lord.

Though the names be lost, and changed the signs of Light and Wisdom be,

By these only shall men conquer, by these only be set free:

When the whole world's eye was Athens, these were yours, and theirs were ye.

Light was given you of your wisdom, light ye gave the world again:

As the sun whose godhead lightened on her soul was Hellas then:

Yea, the least of all her children as the chosen of other men.

No man's men were they, no master's and no God's but these their own:

Gods not loved in vain nor served amiss, nor all yet overthrown:

Love of country, Freedom, Wisdom, Light, and none save these alone.

Host on host roared westward, mightier each than each, if more might be:

Field to field made answer, clamorous like as wave to wave at sea.

Strife to strife responded, loud as rocks to clangorous rocks respond

Where the deep rings wreck to seamen held in tempest's thrall and bond,

Till when war's bright work was perfect peace as radiant rose beyond:

Peace made bright with fruit of battle, stronger made for storm gone down,

With the flower of song held heavenward for the violet of her crown

Woven about the fragrant forehead of the fostress maiden's town.

Gods arose alive on earth from under stroke of human hands:

As the hands that wrought them, these are dead, and mixed with time's dead sands:

But the godhead of supernal song, though these now stand not, stands.

Pallas is not, Phoebus breathes no more in breathing brass or gold:

Clytaemnestra towers, Cassandra wails, for ever: Time is bold,

But nor heart nor hand hath he to unwrite the scriptures writ of old.

Dead the chryselephantine God, as dew last evening shed:

Dust of earth or foam of ocean is the symbol of his head;

Earth and ocean shall be shadows when Prometheus shall be dead.

[Nathaniel Hale 1775 0]

Happy the Man, and happy he alone,

He, who can call today his own;

He who, secure within, can say,

Tommorow do they worst, for I have

liv'd today.

Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,

The joys I have possest, in spight of

fate are mine.

No Heav'n it self upon the past has

pow'r;

Bu what as been, has been, and I have

had my hour.

Horace (Translated by John Dryden)

How happy the love,

How easie his Chain,

How pleasing his Pain!

How sweet to discover

He sighs not in vain.

For Love ev'ry Creature

Is form'd by his Nature;

No Joys are above

The Pleasures of Love.

In vain are our Graces,

In vain are your Eyes,

If Love you despise;

When Age furrows Faces,

'Tis time to be wise.

Then use the short Blessing,

That flies in Possessing:

No Joys are above

The Pleasures of Love.

John Dryden

[Nathaniel Hale 1775 0]

One more from the same...

"What kindl'd Life, and form'd the Souls the

same:

The Faculties of Intellect, and Will,

Dispens'd with equal Hand, dispos'd with

equal skill,

Like Liberty indulg'd with Choice of Good

or Ill.

Thus born alike, from Vertue first began

The Diff'rence that distinguish'd Man from

Man:

He claimed no Title from Descent of Blood,

But that which made him Noble, made him

Good."

From Boccace (translated by Dryden)

[B. Royce 0]

In Sir Walter Scott's narrative poem, "The Bridal Of Triermanin" Lord De Vaux comes upon a mysterious castle guarded by four moslem women. Scott expresses their hatred of life very well.

Rash adventurer, bear thee back!

Dread the spell of Dahomay!

Fear the race of Zaharak,

Daughters of the burning day!

When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling,

Ours it is the dance to braid;

Zarah's sands in pillars reeling,

Join the measure that we tread;

When the Moon has donn'd her cloak,

And the stars are red to see,

Shrill then pipes the sad Siroc,

Music meet for such as we.

Where the shattered columns lie,

Showing Carthage once had been,

If the wandering Santon's eye

Our mysterious rites hath seen---

Oft he cons the prayer of death,

To the nations preaches doom,

"Azrael's brand hath left the sheath!

Moslems, think upon the tomb!"

Ours the scorpion, ours the snake,

Ours the hydra of the fen,

Ours the tiger of the brake,

All that plague the sons of men.

Ours the tempest's midnight wrack,

Pestilence that wastes by day---

Dread the race of Zaharak!

Fear the spell of Dahomay!

[B. Royce 0]

The name in the title should read Triermain.

[PhilO 0]

I like this Kipling poem, as appropriate now as it ever was.

Macdonough’s Song

WHETHER the State can loose and bind

In Heaven as well as on Earth:

If it be wiser to kill mankind

Before or after the birth—

These are matters of high concern

Where State-kept schoolmen are;

But Holy State (we have lived to learn)

Endeth in Holy War.

Whether The People be led by The Lord,

Or lured by the loudest throat:

If it be quicker to die by the sword

Or cheaper to die by vote—

These are things we have dealt with once,

(And they will not rise from their grave)

For Holy People, however it runs,

Endeth in wholly Slave.

Whatsoever, for any cause,

Seeketh to take or give,

Power above or beyond the Laws,

Suffer it not to live!

Holy State or Holy King—

Or Holy People’s Will—

Have no truck with the senseless thing.

Order the guns and kill!

Saying—after—me:—

Once there was The People—Terror gave it birth;

Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.

Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!

Once there was The People—it shall never be again!

[B. Royce 0]

In The Orchard, by Swinburne

Leave go my hands, ley me catch breath and see;

Let the dew-fall drench either side of me;

Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon

Seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie.

Kissed upon either cheek and either eye,

I turn to thee as some green afternoon

Turns toward sunset, and is loth to die;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Lie closer, lean your face upon my side,

Feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried,

Hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon;

The pleasure lives there when the sense has died;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

O my fair lord, I charge you leave me this:

Is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss?

Nay, take it then, my flower, my first in June,

My rose, so like a tender mouth it is:

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire,

Dividing my delight and my desire,

The crescent life and love the plenilune,

Love me though dusk begin and dark retire;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know,

When life runs over, life is near to go;

And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn,

And with their blood, if love will have it so;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt;

There is no building now the walls are built,

No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn,

No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain;

Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain,

Break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune,

Slay me ere day can slay desire again;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea,

Take life and all, for I will die, I say;

Love, I gave love, is life a better boon?

For sweet night's sake I will not live till day;

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go.

Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I know

Love, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune;

Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so.

Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

[B. Royce 0]

Les Noyades, by Swinburne

Whatever a man of the sons of men

Shall say to his heart of the lords above,

They have shown man verily, once and again,

Marvelous mercies and infinite love.

In the wild fifth year of the change of things,

When France was glorious and blood-red, fair

With dust of battle and deaths of kings,

A queen of men, with helmeted hair;

Carrier came down to the Loire and slew,

Till all the ways and the waves waxed red:

Bound and drowned, slaying two by two,

Maidens and young men, naked and wed.

They brought on a day to his judgment-place

One rough with labor and red with fight,

And a lady noble by name and face,

Faultless, a maiden, wonderful, white.

She knew not, being for shame's sake blind,

If his eyes were hot on her face hard by,

And the judge bade strip and ship them, and bind

Bosom to bosom to drown and die.

The white girl winced and whitened; but he

Caught fire, waxed bright as a great bright flame

Seen with thunder far out on the sea,

Laughed hard as the glad blood went and came.

Twice his lips quailed with delight, then said,

"I have but a word to you all, one word

Bear with me; surely I am but dead;"

And all they laughed and mocked him and heard.

"Judge, when they open the judgment-roll,

I will stand upright before God and pray:

'Lord God, have mercy on one man's soul,

For his mercy was great upon earth, I say.

"'Lord, if I loved thee---Lord if I served---

If these who darkened thy Son's fair face

I fought with, sparing not one, nor swerved

A hand's-breadth, Lord, in the perilous plsce---

"'I pray thee say to this man, O Lord,

Sit thou for him at my feet on a throne.

I will face thy wrath, though it bite as a sword,

And my soul shall burn for his soul and atone.

"'For Lord, thou knowest, O God most wise,

How gracious on earth were his deeds toward me.

Shall this be a small thing in thine eyes,

That is greater in mine than the whole great sea?'

"I have loved this woman my whole life long,

And even for love's sake when have I said

'I love you?' when have I done you wrong,

Living? but now I shall have you dead.

"Yea, now, do I bid pou love me, love?

Love me or loathe, we are one not twain.

But God be praised in his heaven above

For this my pleasure and that my pain!

"For never a man, being mean like me,

Shall die like me till the whole world dies.

I shall drown with her, laughing for love; and she

Mix with me, touching me, lips and eyes.

"Shall she not know me and see me all through,

Me, on whose heart as a worm she trod?

You have given me, God requite it you,

What man yet never was given of God."

O sweet one love, O my life's delight,

Dear, though the days have divided us,

Lost beyond hope, taken far out of sight,

Not twice in the world shall the gods do thus.

Had it been so hard for my love? but I,

Though the gods gave all that a god can give,

I had chosen rather the gift to die,

Cease, and be glad above all that live.

For the Loire would have driven us down to the sea,

And the sea would have pitched us from shoal to shoal;

And I should have held you, and you held me,

As flesh holds flesh, and the soul the soul.

Could I change you, help you to love me, sweet,

Could I give you the love that would sweeten death,

We should yield, go down, locked hands and feet,

Die, drown together, and breath catch breath;

But you would have felt my soul in a kiss,

And known that once if I loved you well;

And I would have given my soul for this

To burn forever in burning hell.

[B. Royce 0]

Where Lies The Land?, by Arthur Clough

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,

Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;

Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below

The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights, when wild north-westers rave,

How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast

Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

[B. Royce 0]

Here are three roundels by Swinburne.

A Singing Lesson

Far-fetched and dear-bought, as the proverb rehearses,

Is good, or was held so, for ladies: but nought

In a song can be good if the turn of the verse is

Far-fetched and dear-bought.

As the turn of a wave should it sound, and the thought

Ring smooth, and as light as the spray that dispeses

Be the gleam of the words for the garb thereof wrought.

Let the soul in it shine through the sound as it pierces

Men's hearts with possession of music unsought;

For the bounties of song are no jealous god's mercies,

Far-fetched and dear-bought.

_________________________________________________

Eros

Eros, from rest in isles far-famed,

With rising Anthesterion rose,

And all Hellenic heights acclaimed

Eros.

The sea one pearl, the shore one rose,

All round him all the flower-month flamed

And lightened, laughing off repose.

Earth's heart, sublime and unashamed,

Knew, even perchance as man's heart knows,

The thirst of all men's nature named

Eros.

Eros, a fire of heart untamed,

A light of spirit in sense that glows,

Flamed heavenward still ere earth defamed

Eros.

Nor fear nor shame durst curb or close

His golden godhead, marred and maimed,

Fast round with bonds that burnt and froze.

Ere evil faith struck blind and lamed

Love, pure as fire or flowers or snows,

Earth hailed as blameless and unblamed

Eros.

Eros, with shafts by thouseands aimed

At laughing lovers round in rows,

Fades from their sight whose tongues proclaimed

Eros.

But higher than transient shapes or shows

The light of love in life inflamed

Springs, toward no goal that these disclose.

Above those heavens which passion claimed

Shines, veiled by change that ebbs and flows,

The soul in all things born or framed,

Eros.

________________________________________

The Way Of The Wind

The wind's way in the deep sky's hollow

None may measure, as none can say

How the heart in her shows the swallow

The wind's way.

Hope nor fear can avail to stay

Waves that whiten on wrecks that wallow,

Times and seasons that wane and slay.

Life and love, till the strong night swallow

Thought and hope and the red last ray,

Swim the waters of years that follow

The wind's way.

[B. Royce 0]

Here are three beautiful sonnets by Samuel Daniel (1563-1619)

Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty

Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal,

Returning thee the tribute of my duty,

Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.

Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul,

Where I have cast the accounts of all my care;

Here have I summed my sighs, here I enroll

How they were spent for thee; look what they are.

Look on the dear expenses of my youth,

And see how just I reckon with thine eyes;

Examine well thy beauty with my truth,

And cross my cares, ere greater sums arise.

Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly;

Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly.

___________________________________________

My spotless love hovers with purest wings

About the temple of the proudest frame;

Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,

Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.

My ambitious thoughts, confin-ed in her face,

Affect no honour, but what she can give;

My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;

I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.

For she that can my heart imparadise

Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;

My fortune's wheel's the circle of her eyes,

Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss!

All my life's sweet consists in her alone,

So much I love the most unloving one.

_________________________________________

When winter snows upon thy sable hairs,

And frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near;

When dark shall seem thy day that never clears,

And all lies withered that was held so dear;

Then take this picture which I here present thee,

Limned with a pencil not all unworthy;

Here see the gifts that God and Nature lent thee;

Here read thyself, and what I suffered for thee.

This may remain thy lasting monument,

Which happily posterity may cherish;

These colours with thy fading are not spent;

These may remain when thou and I shall perish.

If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby;

They will remain, and so thou canst not die.

[B. Royce 0]

Here are a few stanzas from Samuel Daniel's aloof (ie., distrustful of human desire), but powerful,

To the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland

He that of such a height hath built his mind,

And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,

As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame

Of his resolved powers, nor all the wind

Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong

His settled peace, or to disturb the same:

What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may

The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey.

And with how free an eye doth he look down

Upon these lower regions of turmoil,

Where all the storms of passions mainly beat

On flesh and blood; where honour, power, reknown,

Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;

Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet

As frailty doth, and only great doth seem

To little minds, who do it so esteem.

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars

But only as on stately robberies,

Where evermore the fortune that prevails

Must be the right; the ill-succeeding mars

The fairest and the best-faced enterprise.

Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails:

Justice he sees, as if seduced, still

Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill.

Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks

Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow

Of power, that proudly sits on others' crimes,

Charged with more crying sins than those he checks.

The storms of sad confusion, that may grow

Up in the present for the coming times,

Appal not him, that hath no side at all,

But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.

Although his heart, so near allied to earth,

Cannot but pity the perplexed state

Of troublous and distressed mortality,

That thus make way unto the ugly birth

Of their own sorrows, and do still beget

Affliction upon imbecility:

Yet seeing thus the course of things must run,

He looks thereon not strange, but as foredone.

And whilst distraught ambition compasses,

And is encompassed, whilst man doth ransack man,

And builds on blood, and rises by distress,

And th'inheritance of desolation leaves

To great expecting hopes, he looks thereon,

As from a shore of peace, with unwet eye,

And bears no venture in impiety.

Thus, Madame, fares that man, that hath prepared

A rest for his desires, and sees all things

Beneath him, and hath learnt this book of man,

Full of the notes of frailty, and compared

The best of glory with her sufferings;

By whom, I see, you labour all you can

To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as near

His glorious mansion, as your powers can bear.

Which, Madame, are so soundly fashioned

By that clear judgement, that hath carried you

Beyond the feeble limits of your kind,

As they can stand against the strongest head

Passion can make, inured to any hue

The world can cast; that cannot cast that mind

Out of her form of goodness, that doth see

Both what the best and worst of earth can be.

Which makes that, whatsoever here befalls,

You in the region of yourself remain,

Where no vain breath of th'impudent molests,

That hath secured within the brazen walls

Of a clear conscience, that without all stain

Rises in peace, in innocency rests;

Whilst all that malice from without procures,

Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours.

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge,

Than women use to do, yet you well know

That wrong is better checked by being contemned,

Than being pursued, leaving to him t'venge,

To whom it appertains, wherein you show

How worthily your clearness hath consumed

Base malediction, living in the dark,

That at the rays of goodness still doth bark.

And this note, Madame, of your worthiness

Remains recorded in so many hearts,

As time nor malice cannot wrong your right

In th'inheritance of fame you must possess,

You that have built you by your great deserts,

Out of small means, a far more exquisite

And glorious dwelling for your honored name,

Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame.

[B. Royce 0]

Here are two poems by two English women of the 18th century.

The Resolve, by Mary, Lady Chudleigh (1656-1710). written in 1703

For what the world admires I'll wish no more,

Nor court that airy nothing of a name:

Such flitting shadows let the proud adore,

Let them be suppliants for an empty fame.

If reason rules within, and keeps the throne,

While the inferior faculties obey,

And all her laws without reluctance own,

Accounting none more fit, more just than they;

If Virtue my free soul unsullied keeps,

Exempting it from passion and from stain,

If no black guilty thoughts disturb my sleeps,

And no past crimes my vexed remembrance pain;

If, though I pleasure find in living here,

I yet can look on death without surprise;

If I've a soul above the reach of fear,

And which will nothing mean or sordid prize;

A soul, which cannot be depressed by grief,

Nor too much raised by the sublimest joy,

Which can, when troubled, give itself relief,

And to advantage all its thoughts employ:

Then am I happy in my humble state,

Although not crowned with glory or with bays:

A mind, that that triumphs over vice and fate,

Esteems it mean to court the world for praise.

__________________________________________

To Lysander, October 3, 1726, by Judith Madan (1702-1781)

To her husband on the first birthday of their son.

The lyre neglected, and the tuneful lay,

Whole summer suns have rolled unsung away:

The eyes alone can raise the stifled fire---

What cannot eyes so bright as thine inspire?

Warmed by their beams, again my voice I raise;

Love shall assist, while you command my lays.

What theme so fit to crown this fond essay

As our first hope, in thy resemblance gay?

So, to new light and grace successive born,

The rosy east precedes the breaking morn;

So sprightly dawns the gentle opening day,

While every meaner lustre fades away.

Thee, lovely boy, with tender joy I view,

Less soft the genuine plum's unsullied blue;

Less sweet the violet hung with pearly rain,

When vernal showers refresh the fragrant plain.

Thy looks serene in native beauty shine,

And peace and dovelike innocense are thine.

Nature's soft pride! whose artless smiles dispense

The sparks of reason kindling into sense;

Whose lips, smooth rival of the vermeiled rose,

Rich in Lysander's bright resemblance glows.

Such was the infant promise of his charms,

So turned his graceful neck and waxen arms.

Through thy whole frame the kindred likeness speaks,

And from thine eyes in untaught language breaks.

Ye circling hours with kindest influence roll,

And to the body fit the forming soul:

Let every grace attend the lovely care,

And faithful Nature paint Lysander there.

[B. Royce 0]

Jean Adams, a shipmaster's daughter, dreamed of a fine morning in 1734.

Type of the Rising Sun, by Jean Adams (1710-1765)

Loosed from its bonds my soirit fled away,

And left behind its moving tent of clay.

Aloft it soars through fields of painted air,

Which Fancy's pencil could not paint too fair.

I looked, and saw the God of day arise;

With graceful steps he travels up the skies:

By just degrees at length he reached the line.

I saw the utmost limits of him shine:

While moon and stars before his chariot fly,

He in the floating mirror fixed his eye.

"Here fix, my eye; come to the porch, my ear;

Sit still, my thought, that I the sound may hear."

They all obeyed, when lo, I heard a cry,

"Come out and meet the ruler of the sky."

Implicit Nature all together ran,

Their numerous voices seemed a single man.

How from my heart the flame leaped to my eye,

While through the clear perspective I descry

Pure Nature's unconsulted harmony.

"I am his bed," cried out the torrid clime;

"He fixed my periods," cried revolving Time;

"He is my husband," cried the quickening shower;

"He's my physician," cried the drooping flower.

I heard the little insect world all cry,

"He gave me life, and force, and wings to fly."

The vine cried out, "He nursed me when a plant,

Ev'n to this hour he gives me what I want;

His virtue brought the moisture to my crop,

He formed the blossoms on my trmbling top;

He made my clusters ready for the press,

And shall not I express my thankfulness?"

"He cut my channels," cried the exulting flood;

"I owe him all my beauties," cried the wood.

"He gave me light and heat," said smiling flame;

"I am his shadow," cried exalted Fame.

"I am his darling," cried unfeign-ed Truth;

"And so am I," replied the winged youth;

"In all his actions thou may'st see me move."

"Nay, I have all his soul," cried divine Love.

Dumb Echo cried, "He taught me to repeat:

None else could e'er teach me to imitate."

"I am his cup," cried pure unmix-ed Grief;

Said heavenly Joy, "I fly to his relief."

"I am his sword," cried uncorrupted Hate;

"I quake before him," cried relentless Fate.

This harmony was noble and divine:

All joyed to see their benefactor shine.

The feathered choir clapped all their wings for joy,

Whose notes made up a perfect harmony.

Now russet garments on the fields are spread,

And now palm branches in his way are laid.

All Nature seemed to wanton in her prime;

Pure pleasure seemed to turn the wheel of Time!

_____________________________________________

Stella and Flavia, by Mary Barber (1690-1757_

Stella and Flavia every hour

Unnumbered hearts surprise:

In Stella's soul lies all her power,

And Flavia's in her eyes.

More boundless Flavia's conquests are,

And Stella's more confined:

All can discern a face that's fair,

But few a lovely mind.

Stella, like Britain's monarch, reigns

O'er cultivated lands;

Like Eastern tyrants, Flavia deigns

To rule o'er barren sands.

Then boast, fair Flavia, boast your face,

Your beauty's only store:

Your charms will every day decrease,

Each day give Stella more.

_________________________________

On the Prospect from Westminster Bridge, by Elizabeth Tollet )1694-1754

Caesar! renowned in silence as in war,

Look down a while from thy maternal star:

See! to the skies what sacred domes ascend,

What ample arches o'er the river bend;

What vills above in rural prospect lie,

Beneath, a street that intercepts the eye,

Where happy Commerce glads the wealthy streams,

And floating castles ride. Is this the Thames,

The scene where brave Cassibelan of yore

Repulsed thy legions on a savage shore?

Britain, 'tis true, was hard to overcome,

Or by the arms, or by the arts, of Rome;

Yet we allow thee ruler of the Sphere,

And last of all resign thy Julian year.

[B. Royce 0]

An anonymous woman, writing in England in the 1730's, became known as The Amorous Lady.

Some 19th century male poets, lamenting there was no modern Sappho, should have looked more closely right behind them.

A Letter to my Love.---All alone, past 12, in the Dumps

Oh! weep with me the changing scene,

Torn from thy arms, devoured with spleen.

Instead of those dear eyes, I look

Upon the fire, or else a book:

But oh! how dull must either be

To eyes that have been studying thee!

Unless the poet does express

Something that strikes my tenderness,

I throw the leaves neglected by,

And in my chair supinely lie;

Or to the pen and ink I haste,

And there a world of paper waste.

All I can write, though love is here,

Does much unlike my soul appear.

Angry, the scrawling side I turn,

I write and blot, and write and burn.

Then to the bottle I repair,

The poets tell us ease is there:

But I thy absent hand repine,

Whose sweetness used to zest the wine;

Wine in this sullen moment fails;

I burn my pen, I bite my nails,

Rail at my stars, nay, I accuse

Even my lover, and my Muse.

"Why did he let me go?", I cry.

----And, now I think on't, tell me why.

You might have kind excuses made

To one so willing to have stayed:

The night was rainy, and the wind

To all thy softest wishes kind.

For thee and love methought it blew,

As if my parting pains it knew,

As if it was a lover too.

I'm safely shaded from its power,

But I regard its rage no more:

Now let it tempest as it please,

Or move the groves, or fright the seas,

It cannot now alarm my rest,

Unless it reach thy dearer breast.

Oh! hasten to me; let my arms

Protect thee from the wintry storms.

I tremble lest the cold should dare

To pierce thee---let my image, there,

Defend it, if it has a charm,

From these and every other harm.

I want thy bosom to repose

My beating heart, oppressed with woes;

I want thy voice my soul to cheer,

They voice is music to my ear;

I want thy dear loved hand to press

My neck, with silent tenderness;

I want thy eyes to make me bright,

And charm this sullen hour of night.

This hour, when pallid ghosts appear,

Oh! could it bring thy shadow here,

I every substance would resign

To clasp thy aerial breast to mine;

Or if, my love, that could not be,

I would turn air to mix with thee.

[B. Royce 0]

Here, "The Amorous Lady" replies to her male critics.

On Being Charged With Writing Incorrectly

I'm incorrect: the learn-ed say

That I write well, but not their way.

For this to every star I bend:

From their dull method heaven defend,

Who labour up the hill of fame,

And pant and struggle for a name!

My free-born thoughts I'll not confine,

Though all Parnassus could be mine.

No, let my genius have its way,

My genius I will still obey:

Nor with their stupid rules control

The sacred pulse that beats within my soul.

I from my very heart despise

These mighty dull, these mighty wise,

Who were the slaves of Busby's nod,

And learned their methods from his rod.

Shall bright Apollo drudge at school,

And whimper till he grows a fool?

Apollo, to the learn-ed coy,

In nouns and verbs finds little joy.

The tuneful Sisters still he leads

To silver streams, and flowery meads.

He glories in an artless breast,

And loves the goddess Nature best.

Let Dennis haunt me with his spite;

Let me read Dennis every night,

Or any punishment sustain,

To 'scape the labour of the brain.

Let the dull think, or let 'em mend

The trifling errors they pretend;

Writing's my pleasure, which my Muse

Would not for all their glory lose:

With transport I the pen employ,

And every line reveals my joy.

No pangs of thought I undergo;

My words descend, my numbers flow;

Though disallowed, my friend, I swear

I would not think, I would not care,

If I a pleasure can impart,

Or to my own, or thy dear heart,

If I thy gentle passions move,

'Tis all I ask of fame or love.

This to the very learn-ed say,

If they are angry----why, they may:

I from my very soul despise

These mighty dull, these mighty wise.

[B. Royce 0]

What better way to start off the New Year's celebration than to hear a triumph-song from our aging friend Pindar, whose voice, even through the 1922 English translation of Australian Arthur S. Way, is ever young.

Pythian X (498 B.C.)

Happy is Sparta, and bless-ed is Thessaly, seeing there reigneth

In one and the other a race descended from Herakles.

Is not the vaunt out of season? O nay, for a summons constraineth

Me from Pelinna and Pytho and sons of Aleuas, for these

Would bring to Hippokleas chanting of victory-choruses.

He hath tasted the joy of the athlete: the gorge of Parnassus hath hailed him

To the host of the dwellers around as first in the boys' double-race.

Sweet, O Apollo, man's work is when Zeus' strong help hath availed him,

Sweet in beginning and end; and this he achieved by thy grace;

And his prowess inborn in the print of the feet of his father doth pace.

For twice in Olympia's contests in armour of battle-biding

Ares did Phrikias run: in the mead under Kirrha's rock hiding

Were the feet of the father winged with the might of victory.

So ever may fortune fair follow these in the days to be!

So may their splendour of wealth ever bloom as the flower-starred lea.

Of the blessings delightsome of Hellas may these win no small measure!

No jealous repentings of gods turn ever to darkness their light!

Sooth, a god's heart only is painless; yet he winneth happiness' treasure,

And is hymned of the singers, whose prowess of hands or of feet to the height

Of athlete-triumph hath climbed by his courage and bodily might,

And he who hath lived to behold a son by Fate's favour attaining

The Pythian crown. Olympia's towers are for mortals unscaleable aye;

Yet all havens of splendour a mortal may sail to are his for the gaining.

But neither the journeying foot nor the galley, quest as they may,

To the Rest-land Auroral shall find the mystery-hidden way.

Yet did Perseus the war-chief feast in their halls, and their sacrificing

Behold, as from altars he saw the smoke of ass-hecatombs rising

Unto Apollo; yea, and the god hath delight evermore

In the festival-banquets of these, and their chants that heavenward soar;

And he laugheth beholding the beasts as they wanton with ramp and roar.

Yea, and the Muse from their lives is not exiled, but circle-wise winding

Dances of maidens sweep, and the voice of the lyre rings clear,

And the notes of the pipe, and their tresses with golden bay-leaves binding

Blithely they banquet, nor eld nor wasting disease draw near

To that hallowed folk, but from toil and from clash of sword and spear

Dwell they afar, and the tyrannous Goddess of Retribution

They escape. To that happy folk of old fared Danae's son

Guided on by Athene, and breathing an aweless heart's resolution.

And the Gorgon he slew, and he bare that head which luridly shone

With serpents that dealt to the island people a death of stone.

So the gods but accomplish it, nought is too hard for our credence and wonder.

Now stay the car, Muse; from the prow slip the anchor to grapple thereunder

The sea-floor, to guard thee against the reef that lurking lies.

For the flower-sweet glory of this my song ever restlessly flies

From legend to legend, a bee with honey-laden thighs.

O, I trust that, the while the lips of Ephyra's singers are pouring

My sweet strains forth by the side of Peneius, my songs may make

Hippokleas by age-mates and elders more more honoured, with eyes adoring

Looked on by maidens young, for his victory-garlands' sake.

Men's hearts do diverse temptations with longing captive take;

But the prize for which each man hath striven, and won, is the soul-alluring

Desire of his heart for the hour that is present---yet what the tide

Of time in a year shall bring, none knoweth. Ah, but enduring

Shall be Thorax' friendship, I trust! On this car of the Muses I ride

By the help he hath rendered, a friend to a friend, and a guide to a guide.

As gold by the touchstone tried is the soul that from right never falters.

His noble brethren withal will we praise, the princely exalters

Of Thessaly's commonweal, which ever they magnify.

Yea, best in the hands of high-born men doth the piloting lie

Of cities wherein their fathers have ruled in the years gone by.

[B. Royce 0]

From the long narrative poem, Lalla Rookh, I found one memorable stanza.

from Lalla Rookh, by Thomas Moore

And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath

Shall like a whirlwind scatter in its breeze

That whole dark pile of human mockeries---

Then shall the reign of mind commence on earth.

And starting fresh as from a second birth,

Man in the sunshine of the world's new spring

Shall walk transparent like some holy thing!

[B. Royce 0]

Here is another cheerfully optimistic poem by the American poet, Angela Morgan (1873-1957).

In Spite Of War

In spite of war, in spite of death,

In spite of all man's sufferings,

Something within me laughs and sings

And I must praise with all my breath.

In spite of war, in spite of hate

Lilacs are blooming at my gate,

Tulips are tripping down the path

In spite of war, in spite of wrath.

"Courage!" the morning-glory saith;

"Rejoice!" the daisy murmureth,

And just to live is so divine

When pansies lift their eyes to mine.

The clouds are romping with the sea,

And flahing waves call back to me

That naught is real but what is fair,

That everywhere and everywhere

A glory liveth through despair.

Though guns may roar and cannon boom,

Roses are born and gardens bloom;

My spirit still may light its flame

At that same torch whence poppies came.

Where morning's altar whitely burns

Lilies may lift their silver urns

In spite of war, in spite of shame.

And in my ear a whispering breath,

"Wake from the nightmare! Look and see

That life is naught but ecstacy

In spite of war, in spite of death!"

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a very pleasant poem by Thomas Parnell (1679-1717)

Anacreontic

When spring came on with fresh delight,

To cheer the soul and charm the sight,

While easy breezes, softer rain,

And warmer sun, salute the plain,

'Twas then in yonder piny grove,

That Nature went to meet with love.

Green was her robe, and green her wreath,

Where'er she trod 'twas green beneath;

Where'er she turned the pulses beat

With new recruits of genial heat;

And in her train the birds appear,

To match for all the coming year.

Rais'd on a bank, where daisies grew,

And vi'lets intermixed a blue,

She finds the boy she went to find;

A thousand Pleasures wait behind;

Aside a thousand arrows lie,

But all unfeather'd wait to fly.

When they met, the dame and boy,

Dancing Graces, idle Joy,

Wanton Smiles, and airy Play,

Conspir'd to make the scene be gay;

Love pair'd the birds through all the grove,

And Natue bid them sing to Love;

Sitting, hopping, flutt'ring, sing,

And pay their tribute from the wing.

To fledge the shafts that idly lie,

And yet unfeather'd wait to fly.

'Tis thus, when spring renews the blood,

They meet in ev'ry trembling wood,

And thrice they make the plumes agree,

And ev'ry dart they mount with three,

And ev'ry dart cam boast a kind,

Which suits each proper turn of mind.

From the tow'ring eagle's plume

The gen'rous hearts accept their doom;

Shot by the peacock's painted eye,

The vain and airy lovers die:

For careful dames and frugal men

The shafts are speckled by the hen.

The pyes and parrots deck the darts,

When prattling wins the panting hearts;

When from the voice the passions spring,

The warbling finch affords a wing:

Together by the sparrow stung,

Down fall the wanton and the young;

And fledg'd by geese the weapons fly,

When others love they know not why.

All this (as late I chanced to rove)

I learned in yonder waving grove.

"And see," says Love (who call'd me near)

"How much I deal with Nature here,

How both support a proper part,

She gives the feather, I the dart;

Then cease for souls averse to sigh,

If Nature cross ye, so do I;

My weapon there unfeather'd flies,

And shakes and shuffles through the skies:

But if the mutual charms I find

By which she links you mind to mind,

They wing my shafts, I poize the darts,

And strike from both through both your hearts."

[B. Royce 0]

Here are two contrasting sonnets by Michael Drayton.

A witless Gallant, a young Wench that wooed,

(Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move)

Entreated me, as e'er I wished his good,

To write him but one sonnet to his Love:

Whe I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,

Poured out what first from quick invention came:

Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,

Much like his wit, that was to use the same:

But with my verses he his mistress won,

Who doted on the dolt beyond all measure.

But see, for you to Heav'n for phrase I run,

And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure;

Yet by my froth, this fool his Love obtains,

And I lose you, for all my wits and pains.

________________________________________

Some men there be which like my method well,

And much commend the strangeness of my vein:

Some say, I have a passing pleasing strain,

Some say, that in my humor I excell;

Some, who not kindly relish my conceit,

They say (as poets do) I use to fain,

And in bare words paint out my passion's pain;

Thus sundry men their sundry minds repeat.

I care not, I, how men affected be,

Nor who commends, or discommends my verse;

It pleaseth me if I my woes rehearse,

And in my lines if she my love may see:

Only my comfort still consists in this---

Writing her praise, I cannot write amiss.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a poem discovered in an old manuscript in Cambridge. It was written in Latin, around the year 900, with some stanzas destroyed. It was rendered into English by E.P. Vuolo.

Man:

Now, my sweet girl friend, come---

I love you like my very own heart.

Come inside my cubicle door,

Where I have ornaments galore.

There you'll find some couches spread,

Tapestries hung up overhead,

Flowers sprinkled everywhere

With fragrant herbs to spice the air.

A table laid out you will find,

Weighted with food of every kind;

There the sparkling wine will pour,

And whatever, dear, you adore.

There you'll hear chamber music soft,

And flutes will raise their shrills aloft.

A learn-ed girl, a little boy,

Will offer songs that you'll enjoy.

He'll pluck a plectrum on his cithara;

A lyre will strike a melody with her.

Serving men then will offer up

Winebowls brimming to painted cups.

Girl:

But all this carousing is not my care;

It's the talking later I hold dear.

It's not the richness of the material,

Dear familiarity is all I will.

Man:

Come now, my chosen sister, the best

Delight for me, before all the rest,

Shining light to this pupil of mine,

Greater part of this soul divine!

Girl:

I walked alone through forest spaces,

Delighting in those hidden places;

How oft I fled the vulgar classes,

Trying to avoid the common masses.

Man:

Snow and ice are no more to be seen.

Flowers and grass are growing green.

Philomela high takes her part:

Love burns in the cavern of my heart.

O dearest one, please don't delay!

Be eager---yes, love me right away!

Without you I just can't fend;

We must carry our love to the end.

Why keep deferring, my elect one,

Things that later will have to be done?

Do quickly everything you have to do.

Me---I'm ready anytime for you!