Song (from “Acis and Galatea”)
by John Gay (1685-1732)

O ruddier than the cherry,
O sweeter than the berry,
      O Nymph more bright
      Than moonshine night,
Like kidlings blithe and merry.

Ripe as the melting cluster,
No lily has such lustre,
      Yet hard to tame,
      As raging flame,
And fierce as storms that bluster.

Views: 56

The Soul’s Defiance
by Lavinia Stoddard (1787-1820)

I said to Sorrow’s awful storm,
      That beat against my breast,
Rage on—thou may’st destroy this form,
      And lay it low at rest;
But still the spirit that now brooks
      Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted on its fury looks
      With steadfast eye.

I said to Penury’s meagre train,
      Come on—your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
      And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures
      Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
      With bitter smile.

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
      Pass on—I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form
      And being are forgot;
Yet still the spirit, which you see
      Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility
      Its high-born smiles.

I said to Friendship’s menaced blow,
      Strike deep—my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter woe
      To those already there;
Yet still the spirit that sustains
      This last severe distress
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
      And scorn redress.

I said to Death’s uplifted dart,
      Aim sure—oh, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart—
      A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,
      Unruffled by this last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
      Shall pass away.

Views: 42

The Cry of the Dreamer
by John Boyle O’Reilly (1844-1890)

I am tired of planning and toiling
      In the crowded hives of men;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
      And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river,
      Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives for ever,
      And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming
      Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
      In the throng that hurries by.
From the sleepless thoughts endeavour
      I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever
      And a thinker dies in a day.

I can feel no pride but pity
      For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
      But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skilful
      And the child-mind chocked with weeds!
The daughter’s heart grown wilful,
      And the father’s heart that bleeds!

No, no! from the streat’s rude bustle,
      From trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods’ low rustle
      And the meadows’ kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
      And be loved by the dream away;
For the dreamer lives for ever,
      And a toiler dies in a day.

Views: 52

Love’s Phases
by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
      Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
      Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.

Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
      Cling to him strongly—
What if the look of the world be cold,
      And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.

Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
      Hearken his trilling—
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,—
      Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.

Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
      Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
      Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.

Views: 44

Thorp Green
by Branwell Brontë (1817-1848)

I sit, this evening, far away,
      From all I used to know,
And nought reminds my soul to-day
      Of happy long ago.

Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
      Around my room arise;
I seek for suns of former years
      But clouds o’ercast my skies.

Yes—Memory, wherefore does thy voice
      Bring old times back to view,
As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
      In thoughts and prospects new?

I’ll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
      When troubled thoughts are mine—
For thou, like suns in April’s shower,
      On shadowy scenes wilt shine.

I’ll thank thee when approaching death
      Would quench life’s feeble ember,
For thou wouldst even renew my breath
      With thy sweet word ‛Remember’!

Views: 41

In Answer to a Lady Who Advised Retirement
by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689-1762)

You little know the heart that you advise:
I view this various scene with equal eyes;
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long since the value of this world I know;
Pitied the folly, and despis’d the show;
Well as I can, my tedious part I bear,
And wait dismissal without pain or fear.
Seldom I mark mankind’s detested ways,
Not hearing censure or affecting praise;
And unconcern’d my future fate I trust
To that sole Being, merciful and just!

Views: 43