Ode
by Joseph Addison (1672-1719)

The spacious Firmament on high,
With all the blue Ethereal Sky,
And spangled Heav’ns, a shining Frame,
Their great Original proclaim:
Th’unweary’d Sun from Day to Day
Does his Creator’s Power display,
And publishes, to every Land,
The Work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the Evening Shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous Tale,
And nightly to the listning Earth
Repeats the Story of her Birth:
Whilst all the Stars that round her burn,
And all the Planets, in their turn,
Confirm the Tidings as they rowl,
And spread the Truth from Pole to Pole.

What though, in solemn Silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial Ball?
What tho’ nor real Voice nor Sound
Amid their radiant Orbs be found?
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious Voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
‛The Hand that made us is divine.’

Views: 37

A Little Learning
by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
from An Essay on Criticism

A little Learning is a dang’rous Thing;
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
 There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,
 And drinking largely sobers us again.
 Fir’d at first Sight with what the Muse imparts,
 In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Arts,
 While from the bounded Level of our Mind,
 Short Views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
 But more advanc’d, behold with strange Surprize
 New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise!
 So pleas’d at first, the towring Alps we try,
 Mount o’er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky;
 Th’ Eternal Snows appear already past,
 And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last:
 But those attain’d, we tremble to survey
 The growing Labours of the lengthen’d Way,
 Th’ increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes,
 Hills peep o’er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

Views: 41

A Song from Shakespeare’s Cymbeline
by William Collins (1721-1759)

To fair FIDELE’S grassy Tomb
      Soft Maids and Village Hinds shall bring
Each op’ning Sweet, of earliest Bloom,
      And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing Ghost shall dare appear,
      To vex with Shrieks this quiet Grove;
But Shepherd Lads assemble here,
      And melting Virgins own their Love.

No wither’d Witch shall here be seen,
      No Goblins lead their Nightly crew:
The Female Fays shall haunt the green,
      And dress thy Grave with pearly Dew!

The Redbreast oft at Ev’ning Hours
      Shall kindly lend his little Aid:
With hoary Moss, and gather’d Flow’rs,
      To deck the Ground where thou art laid.

When howling Winds, and beating Rain,
      In Tempests shake the sylvan Cell:
Or midst the Chace on ev’ry Plain,
      The tender Thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely Scene shall thee restore,
      For thee the Tear be duly shed:
Belov’d, till Life could charm no more;
      And mourn’d, till Pity’s self be dead.

Views: 42

Address to the Moon
by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)

How sweet the silver Moon’s pale ray,
Falls trembling on the distant bay,
O’er which the breezes sigh no more,
Nor billows lash the sounding shore.
Say, do the eyes of those I love,
Behold thee as thou soar’st above,
Lonely, majestic and serene,
The calm and placid evening’s Queen?
Say, if upon thy peaceful breast,
Departed spirits find their rest,
For who would wish a fairer home,
Than in that bright, refulgent dome?

Views: 34

When the Cuckoo Sings
by William Henry Davies (1871-1940)

In summer, when the Cuckoo sings,
   And clouds like greater moons can shine;
When every leafy tree doth hold
   A loving heart that beats with mine:
Now, when the Brook has cresses green,
   As well as stones, to check his pace;
And, if the Owl appears, he’s forced
   By small birds to some hiding-place:
Then, like red Robin in the spring,
   I shun those haunts where men are found;
My house holds little joy until
   Leaves fall and birds can make no sound;
Let none invade that wilderness
   Into whose dark green depths I go—
Save some fine lady, all in white,
   Comes like a pillar of pure snow.

Views: 50

Edone
by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock (1724-1803)

Dein süßes Bild, Edone,
Schwebt stets vor meinem Blick;
Allein ihn trüben Zähren,
Daß du es selbst nicht bist.

Ich seh’ es, wenn der Abend
Mir dämmert; wenn der Mond
Mir glänzt, seh’ ich’s, und weine,
Daß du es selbst nicht bist.

Bei jenes Tales Blumen,
Die ich ihr lesen will,
Bei jenen Myrtenzweigen,
Die ich ihr flechten will,

Beschwör’ ich dich, Erscheinung,
Auf, und verwandle dich!
Verwandle dich, Erscheinung,
Und werd’ Edone selbst!

Views: 35

Cradle Song
by Florence Earle Coates (1850-1927)

Thy heart and mine are one, my dear,
⁠      At dawn and set of sun;
When skies are bright, when days are drear,
⁠      Thy heart and mine are one!

About us move the hapless folk
⁠      Whom paltry things estrange;
The friends that feel their bond a yoke,
⁠      The loves that lightly change;

But thou and I, my bonny child,
⁠      Their dangers blithely shun,
Nor can by folly be beguiled,—
⁠      For thou and I are one!

Views: 36

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: 66

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: 54

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: 60