Lines on the Mermaid Tavern
by John Keats (1795-1821)

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host’s Canary wine?
Or are the fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer’s old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Views: 40

The Riot (concerning the Gordon Riots)
by James Boswell (1740-1795)

Old England, alas! what is come to thy sons!
Such rioting over the Capital runs
      That has not been seen for a cent’ry before.
A rabble like that at a country wake,
When a poor harmless bull is fast tied to a stake,
With a Scot for their leader rush rapidly on
To make at St. Stephen’s their grievances known
      Concerning the progress of Babylon’s whore.

From the fields of St. George when speaking at least
To see fifty thousand march just six abreast,
      The City might well in confusion be thrown.
Cockades of true blue never more were display’d,
And to grace the procession the bagpipes were play’d.
A more curious mixture did never appear:
Lord George in the van, and Jack Ketch in the rear,
      Crying, “Down, down with Popery, down!”

As the peers were assembling this riot begins;
Without blushing they broke the Lord President’s shins,
      And the bishops’ silk robes were shamefully tore;
From parliament wigs clouds of powder flew out,
For bagas and full-bottoms were bandied about,
And Germain very fain would have mended his pace
When a full pot of porter came dash in his face
      Who never but once was so frighted before.

But heavens be prais’d! the disturbance is o’er;
Lord George safe and snug is lodg’d in the Tower,
      Tho’ Bedlam some think full as proper a place.
From hence over Britain may harmony reign,
And London the like ne’er experience again.
When warring abroad, divisions at home
By beating religion’s fanatical drum
      On the king’dom have brought the greatest disgrace.

Views: 39

In a Churchyard
by Charlotte Turner Smith (1749-1806)

O thou, who sleep’st where hazel bands entwine
The vernal grass, with paler violets drest!
I would, sweet maid, thy humble bed were mine,
And mine thy calm and enviable rest.
For never more, by human ills opprest,
Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine:
Thou canst not now thy fondest hopes resign
Even in the hour that should have made thee blest.
Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast;
And lingering here, to love and sorrow true,
The youth who once thy simple heart possest
Shall mingle tears with April’s early dew;
While still for him shall faithful memory save
Thy form and virtues from the silent grave.

Views: 47

Per Dante Alighieri
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)

Quante dirne si de’ non si può dire,
   ché troppo agli orbi il suo splendor s’accese;
   biasmar si può più ’l popol che l’offese,
   c’al suo men pregio ogni maggior salire.
Questo discese a’ merti del fallire
   per l’util nostro, e poi a Dio ascese;
   e le porte, che ’l ciel non gli contese,
   la patria chiuse al suo giusto desire.
Ingrata, dico, e della suo fortuna
   a suo danno nutrice; ond’è ben segno
   c’a’ più perfetti abonda di più guai.
Fra mille altre ragion sol ha quest’una:
   se par non ebbe il suo exilio indegno,
   simil uom né maggior non nacque mai.

Views: 48

One Perfect Rose
by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
      All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet —
      One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
      “My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”
Love long has taken for his amulet
      One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
      One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
      One perfect rose.

Views: 45

A la duración de un pensamiento
by Luis de Carrillo y Sotomayor (1583?-1610)

No sólo envidia al suelo, no envidiada
sólo tu altiva frente de una estrella
era, ¡oh gallarda torre, cuanto bella
temida, y cuan temida respetada!

Ya, ¿qué no allana el tiempo?, derribada
creces llanto a Sagunto; niega vella
la yedra, huésped que se abraza en ella,
o ella se esconde en ella de afrentada.

No le prestó su fe, su fortaleza;
mas ¿qué homenaje deja el tiempo duro
que en brazos de sus alas no dé al viento?

No hay bronce que a su fuerza esté seguro.
Tú, triste, eternidad, valor, firmeza
busca, no a bronce o torre, a un pensamiento.

Views: 36

The Light of Home
by Sarah Josepha Hale (1788-1879)

My son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
   And thy spirit will sigh to roam,
And thou must go; but never, when there,
   Forget the light of Home!

Though pleasures may smile with a ray more bright,
   It dazzles to lead astray;
Like the meteor’s flash, ’twill deepen the night
   When treading thy lonely way:—

But the heart of home has a constant flame,
   And purse as vestal fire—
’Twill burn, ’twill burn for ever the same,
   For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed,
   And thy hopes may vanish like foam—
When sails are shivered and compass lost,
   Then look to the light of Home!

And there, like a star through midnight cloud,
   Thou’lt see the beacon bright;
For never, till shining on thy shroud,
   Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame may gild the name,
   But the heart ne’er felt its ray;
And fashion’s smiles, that rich ones claim,
   Are beams of a wintry day:

How cold and dim those beams would be,
   Should Life’s poor wanderer come!—
My son, when the world is dark to thee,
   Then turn to the light of Home.

Views: 56