Poetry quotes

Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever-new, And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th’ approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day; Yet see how all around ’em wait The Ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune’s baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murtherous band!

No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day; Yet see how all around ’em wait The Ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune’s baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murtherous band!

Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind;

To each his sufferings; all are men, Condemned alike to groan,

The tender for another’s pain, The unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate? Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies. Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw; A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize.

What female heart can gold despise? What Cat’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every wat’ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.

A fav’rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize; Nor all, that glisters, gold.

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize; Nor all, that glisters, gold.

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, Fair Venus’ train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo’s note, The untaught harmony of spring;

and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display; On hasty wings thy youth is flown Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic, while ’tis May.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonoured Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can’st read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own,

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own,

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav’n did a recompence as largely send; He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heav’n (’twas all he wished) a friend.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav’n did a recompence as largely send;

He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heav’n (’twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

To raise the ceiling’s fretted height, Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o’er him, My grave Lord-keeper led the brawls; The seal, and maces, danced before him.

What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! Your Hist’ry whither are you spinning?

Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is, (and that’s enough) From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of warriors, not in buff, But rustling in their silks and tissues.

To celebrate her eyes, her air— Coarse panegyrics would but tease her. Melissa is her nom de guerre.

Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capucine, And aprons long they hid their armour, And veiled their weapons bright and keen In pity to the country farmer.

So Rumor says. (Who will, believe.) But that they left the door a-jar, Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war.

Short was his joy. He little knew The power of Magic was no fable;

Out of the window, whisk, they flew, But left a spell upon the table.

And so God save our noble King, And guard us from long-winded lubbers, That to eternity would sing,

And keep my Lady from her rubbers.

Daughter of Jove, relentless Power, Thou Tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best!

“

Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait, Though fanned by Conquest’s crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!”

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me. With joy I see The different doom our Fates assign. Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care,

To triumph, and to die, are mine.

”

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse’s ray With orient hues, unborrowed of the Sun; Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the Good how far⁠—but far above the Great.

In Bartholinus, de causis contemnendae mortis; Hafniae, 1689

Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o’er Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts, that breathe, and words, that burn.

But ah! ’tis heard no more— Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? tho’ he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion Thro’ the azure deep of air;

Mantling in the goblet see The pure beverage of the bee, O’er it hangs the shield of gold; ’Tis the drink of Balder bold; Balder’s head to death is given.

Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!

Unwilling I my lips unclose; Leave me, leave me to repose.

Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall enquirer come To break my iron-sleep again; Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain. Never, till substantial Night Has reassumed her ancient right; Till wrapped in flames, in ruin hurled,

Sinks the fabric of the world.

In The Orcades of Thormodus Torfseus; Hafniae, 1697, folio; and also in Bartholinus.

We the reins to slaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare; Spite of danger he shall live. (

Weave the crimson web of war.

)

Hark! ’tis Nature strikes the lyre, And leads the general song. Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The Herd stood drooping by; Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday, nor morrow know;

’Tis man alone that joy descries With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow Soft Reflection’s hand can trace; And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, See a kindred Grief pursue; Behind the steps that Misery treads, Approaching Comfort view;

The hues of Bliss more brightly glow, Chastised by sabler tints of woe;

And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of Life.

Humble Quiet builds her cell, Near the source whence Pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune; He had not the method of making a fortune;

Could love, and could hate, so was thought somewhat odd; No very great wit, he believed in a God. A place or a pension he did not desire, But left church and state to Charles Townshend and Squire.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune; He had not the method of making a fortune; Could love, and could hate, so was thought somewhat odd;

No very great wit, he believed in a God.

A place or a pension he did not desire, But left church and state to Charles Townshend and Squire.

And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain;

I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more because I weep in vain.

Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain; I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more because I weep in vain.

In silent gaze the tuneful choir among, Half pleased, half blushing, let the Muse admire, While Bentley leads her sister-art along, And bids the pencil answer to the lyre.

But not to one in this benighted age Is that diviner inspiration given, That burns in Shakespeare’s or in Milton’s page,

The pomp and prodigality of heaven.

As, when conspiring in the diamond’s blaze, The meaner gems, that singly charm the sight, Together dart their intermingled rays, And dazzle with a luxury of light.

As, when conspiring in the diamond’s blaze, The meaner gems, that singly charm the sight, Together dart their intermingled rays,

And dazzle with a luxury of light.

Enough for me, if to some feeling breast My lines a secret sympathy … And as their pleasing influence … A sigh of soft reflection. …

I saw them bow, and while they wished him dead, With servile simper nod the mitred head. Our mother-church, with half-averted sight, Blushed as she blessed her grisly proselyte; Hosannas rung through hell’s tremendous borders,

And Satan’s self had thoughts of taking orders.

Thyrsis, when we parted, swore Ere the spring he would return— Ah! what means yon violet flower! And the buds that deck the thorn! ’Twas the lark that upward sprung! ’Twas the nightingale that sung!