The Upper Bohemia people wore tuxedos in an art gallery, and Lower Bohemia was all of us.
quote by David Amram
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[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
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Stiff Upper Lip
(young - young)
Well I was out on a drive
On a bit of a trip
Lookin for thrills
To get me some kicks
Now I warn you ladies
I shoot from the hip
I was born with a stiff
Stiff upper lip
Like a dog in a howl
I bite everything
And Im big and Im drawl
And Ill ball your thing
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot from the hip
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot
And I shoot
Shoot from the hip
Yeah I shoot from the hip
Now listen
Well Im workin it out
And Ive done everything
And I cant reform no
Can you feel my sting
Babe I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot from the hip, yeah
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot
And I shoot
And I shoot, shoot, shoot
Shoot from the hip
Well Im out on the prowl
And Ill ball your thing
I got the teeth thatll bite you
Can you feel my sting
Babe I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot from the hip
I keep a stiff upper lip
And I shoot shoot shoot from the hip
I got a (stiff upper lip)
Better believe me (stiff upper lip)
Comin down (stiff upper lip)
See my (stiff upper lip)
Yeah I got a (stiff upper lip)
Stiff upper lip
Stiff upper lip
I got a stiff upper lip
I got a stiff upper lip
Stiff upper lip
[...] Read more
song performed by AC-DC
Added by Lucian Velea
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As Ireland Wore the Green
BY RIGHT of birth in southern land I send my warning forth.
I see my country ruined by the wrongs that damned the North.
And shall I stand with fireless eyes and still and silent mouth
While Mammon builds his Londons on the fair fields of the South?
CHORUS:
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we will wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
I see the shade of poverty fall on each sunny scene.
And slums and alley-ways extend where fields were evergreen.
There is a law that stamps the flower of freedom as it springs;
And this upon a soil that’s trod by prouder feet than kings’.
And must I hide my colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall I wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland swore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
Out there beyond the lonely range our fathers toiled for years
’Neath all the hardships that beset true-hearted pioneers;
And our brave mothers journeyed there to do the work of men
On those great awful plains that were unfit for women then.
Then must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we shall wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
O shall the fields our fathers won be yielded to the few
Who never touched the axe or spade, and hardships never knew?
Shall lordly robbers rule the land and build their mansions high,
And ladies flaunt their jewelled plumes where our brave mothers lie?
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammnon’s spleen?
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
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Canto the Fourth
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
III.
In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
V.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Perdita
The sea coast of Bohemia
Is pleasant to the view
When singing larks spring from the grass
To fade into the blue,
And all the hawthorn hedges break
In wreaths of purest snow,
And yellow daffodils are out,
And roses half in blow.
The sea-coast of Bohemia
Is sad as sad can be,
The prince has ta’en our flower of maids
Across the violet sea;
Our Perdita has gone with him,
No more we dance the round
Upon the green in joyous play,
Or wake the tabor’s sound.
The sea-coast of Bohemia
Has many wonders seen,
The shepherd lass wed with a king,
The shepherd with a queen;
But such a wonder as my love
Was never seen before,
It is my joy and sorrow now
To love her evermore.
The sea-coast of Bohemia
Is haunted by a light
Of memory fair of lady’s eyes,
And fame of gallant knight;
The princes seek its charmèd strand,
But ah, it was our knell
When o’er the sea our Perdita
Went with young Florizel.
The sea-coast of Bohemia
Is not my resting-place,
For with her waned from out the day
A beauty and a grace:
O had I kissed her on the lips
I would no longer weep,
But live by that until the day
I fall to shade and sleep.
poem by James Hebblethwaite
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In Bohemia
I'D rather live in Bohemia than in any other land;
For only there are the values true,
And the laurels gathered in all men's view.
The prizes of traffic and state are won
By shrewdness or force or by deeds undone;
But fame is sweeter without the feud,
And the wise of Bohemia are never shrewd.
Here, pilgrims stream with a faith sublime
From every class and clime and time,
Aspiring only to be enrolled
With the names that are writ in the book of gold;
And each one bears in mind or hand
A palm of the dear Bohemian land.
The scholar first, with his book—a youth
Aflame with the glory of harvested truth;
A girl with a picture, a man with a play,
A boy with a wolf he has modeled in clay;
A smith with a marvelous hilt and sword,
A player, a king, a plowman, a lord—
And the player is king when the door is past.
The plowman is crowned, and the lord is last!
I'd rather fail in Bohemia than win in another land;
There are no titles inherited there,
No hoard or hope for the brainless heir;
No gilded dullard native born
To stare at his fellow with leaden scorn:
Bohemia has none but adopted sons;
Its limits, where Fancy's bright stream runs;
Its honors, not garnered for thrift or trade,
But for beauty and truth men's souls have made.
To the empty heart in a jeweled breast
There is value, maybe, in a purchased crest;
But the thirsty of soul soon learn to know
The moistureless froth of the social show;
The vulgar sham of the pompous feast
Where the heaviest purse is the highest priest;
The organized charity, scrimped and iced,
In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ;
The smile restrained, the respectable cant,
When a friend in need is a friend in want;
Where the only aim is to keep afloat,
And a brother may drown with a cry in his throat.
Oh, I long for the glow of a kindly heart and the grasp of a friendly hand,
And I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Maryanne Webber Gallery
Maryanne Webber Gallery is on Lurcerne Ave.
featuring fine American crafts, one of a kind jewelry and art glass.
Her gallery represents Florida artists and artists from around the USA,
she has been open since 1990 and is very successful till this day.
Her gallery also has metal sculptures, hand silks and wearable art,
her gallery represents Joan Edelstein, her Arts & Passion Scarf.
She also has sculptures made of clay, one of a kind and handmade.
Her gallery displays original Blue Vase of Elodie Holmes,
a beautiful sculptured piece to cherish in your home.
Also you will find a one of a kind Zip 20 Clock, by David Scherer Designs.
Home accessories that I find colorful and bright,
is hand painted Tropical Wine Glasses by Leslie Millar to drink wine at night.
Maryanne’s gallery is open Monday through Friday,10 till 5 and Saturday 10 to 4,
make sure you stop by and see what unique gifts her gallery has in store.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on November 12,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
Added by Poetry Lover
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Maryanne Webber Gallery
Maryanne Webber Gallery is on Lurcerne Ave.
featuring fine American crafts, one of a kind jewelry and art glass.
Her gallery represents Florida artists and artists from around the USA,
she has been open since 1990 and is very successful till this day.
Her gallery also has metal sculptures, hand silks and wearable art,
her gallery represents Joan Edelstein, her Arts & Passion Scarf.
She also has sculptures made of clay, one of a kind and handmade.
Her gallery displays original Blue Vase of Elodie Holmes,
a beautiful sculptured piece to cherish in your home.
Also you will find a one of a kind Zip 20 Clock, by David Scherer Designs.
Home accessories that I find colorful and bright,
is hand painted Tropical Wine Glasses by Leslie Millar to drink wine at night.
Maryanne’s gallery is open Monday through Friday,10 till 5 and Saturday 10 to 4,
make sure you stop by and see what unique gifts her gallery has in store.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on November 12,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The Lady Wore Black
On a lonely walk this morning
A light mist in the air
Dark clouds laughing at me in silence
Casting shadows through my hair
In the distance I saw a woman
Dressed in black with eyes of grey
She wore her pain like a shackled spirit
Eternal life was her debt to pay
The lady wore black
Its the sign of the prisoners lives
The lady wore black
See the years through the tears in her eyes
The lady wore black
Her mystic power calls to me
The lady wore black
Her love can set me free
The wind song whispered a warning
Telling me to beware
Of the quiet shadowed woman
And of the sadness I would share
We sat together for sometime together in silence
Never speaking in words
Of all her thoughts she spoke with her eyes
And I listened remembering all I heard
The lady wore black
Its the sign of the prisoners lives
The lady wore black
See the years through the tears in her eyes
The lady wore black
Her mystic power calls to me
The lady wore black
Her love can set me free
The words she spoke were of forgotten lives
And of all knowledge gained
Memries I had and didnt know why
With a smile she explained
I should have listened to the winds cold warning
And walked the other way
I touched her soul and now I bear her sentence
But for her love Ill gladly pay
The lady wore black
Its the sign of the prisoners lives
The lady wore black
See the years through the tears in her eyes
The lady wore black
Her mystic power calls to me
The lady wore black
Her love can set me free
song performed by Queensryche
Added by Lucian Velea
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Orlando Furioso Canto 5
ARGUMENT
Lurcanio, by a false report abused,
Deemed by Geneura's fault his brother dead,
Weening the faithless duke, whom she refused,
Was taken by the damsel to her bed;
And her before the king and peers accused:
But to the session Ariodantes led,
Strives with his brother in disguise. In season
Rinaldo comes to venge the secret treason.
I
Among all other animals who prey
On earth, or who unite in friendly wise,
Whether they mix in peace or moody fray,
No male offends his mate. In safety hies
The she bear, matched with hers, through forest gray:
The lioness beside the lion lies:
Wolves, male and female, live in loving cheer;
Nor gentle heifer dreads the wilful steer.
II
What Fury, what abominable Pest
Such poison in the human heart has shed,
That still 'twixt man and wife, with rage possessed,
Injurious words and foul reproach are said?
And blows and outrage hase their peace molest,
And bitter tears still wash the genial bed;
Not only watered by the tearful flood,
But often bathed by senseless ire with blood?
III
Not simply a rank sinner, he appears
To outrage nature, and his God to dare,
Who his foul hand against a woman rears,
Or of her head would harm a single hair.
But who what drug the burning entrail sears,
Or who for her would knife or noose prepare,
No man appears to me, though such to sight
He seem, but rather some infernal sprite.
IV
Such, and no other were those ruffians two,
Whom good Rinaldo from the damsel scared,
Conducted to these valleys out of view,
That none might wot of her so foully snared.
I ended where the damsel, fair of hue,
To tell the occasion of her scathe prepared,
To the good Paladin, who brought release;
And in conclusion thus my story piece.
[...] Read more
poem by Ludovico Ariosto
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Intrigue
THOU art my love
And thou art the peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks
Woe is me.
Thou art my love,
And thou art a storm
That breaks black in the sky
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree
And at the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl
Woe is me!
Thou art my love
And thou art a tinsel thing
And I in my play
Broke thee easily
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a weary violet
Drooping from sun-caresses.
Answering mine carelessly
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art the ashes of other men's love
And I bury my face in these ashes
And I love them
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art the beard
On another man's face
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a temple
And in this temple is an altar
And on this altar is my heart
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a wretch.
[...] Read more
poem by Stephen Crane
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First Poem From The
Pyotr Pavlovich (entering the room):
Zdagger Upper Ooster Ooster
I am carrying someone's elbow
Zdagger Upper Ooster Ooster
Where's Professor De Dispenchin?
Zdagger Upper Ooster Ooster
Where on Earth are office hours?
If this little clockie dangling
Its two weights a-reaching down
Oldish clockie while still pending
Flew an arc without a frown
Zdagger Upper Ooster Ooster
I broke down the rhythm of time
Carabeester on a booster
Works instead of Zdagger Upper
Hand is stretched ever farther
Yielding something arrow-handed
From one minute to another
Rushing blindly as if branded
Right from milk-white clockface down
Pancake's winding Ooster Ooster
Tightly wrapped in dressing-gown
Proudly sits the Carabeester
He is during office seconds
Looking into metered engine
So the time will not be wayward
Like Professor De Dispenchin
Like Andrey Semyonych Zdagger
Single-handed Zdagger Upper
Cares for Zdagger Upper Ooster
His lost hand adjusting aptly
Fixing fingers with a hammer
Zdagger Upper he is nailing
Zdagger Upper Ooster them.
poem by Daniil Ivanovich Kharms
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Never Wore A Gun Before
Never wore a gun before
A plane in the fog, oh wait those are clouds Im talking about
The suitcase in my hand and the way I have to walk
Those are empty smiles, empty eyes Im looking in
Times are over when it was difficult to say
It took some time but I know its just right now
So just a little word about whats really going on
If you want to take that as my way
To say goodbye to you as these red nights must go on
I was rich and I was poor
Didnt do the things I had to do
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was lost and I was found
He earned money you couldnt count
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
He left the chamber but these times are over
Shes got
Shes got more than four weeks to be herself
Hes playin with fire and looks around on this world
Oh I love them and the plane in the fog
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dar
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was up and I was down
He thought the things to the ground
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
song performed by Wonderwall
Added by Lucian Velea
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Never Wore A Gun Before
Never wore a gun before
A plane in the fog, oh wait those are clouds Im talking about
The suitcase in my hand and the way I have to walk
Those are empty smiles, empty eyes Im looking in
Times are over when it was difficult to say
It took some time but I know its just right now
So just a little word about whats really going on
If you want to take that as my way
To say goodbye to you as these red nights must go on
I was rich and I was poor
Didnt do the things I had to do
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was lost and I was found
He earned money you couldnt count
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
He left the chamber but these times are over
Shes got
Shes got more than four weeks to be herself
Hes playin with fire and looks around on this world
Oh I love them and the plane in the fog
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dar
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was up and I was down
He thought the things to the ground
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
song performed by Wonderwall
Added by Lucian Velea
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Fifth Book
AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Orlando Furioso Canto 17
ARGUMENT
Charles goes, with his, against King Rodomont.
Gryphon in Norandino's tournament
Does mighty deeds; Martano turns his front,
Showing how recreant is his natural bent;
And next, on Gryphon to bring down affront,
Stole from the knight the arms in which he went;
Hence by the kindly monarch much esteemed,
And Gryphon scorned, whom he Martano deemed.
I
God, outraged by our rank iniquity,
Whenever crimes have past remission's bound,
That mercy may with justice mingled be,
Has monstrous and destructive tyrants crowned;
And gifted them with force and subtlety,
A sinful world to punish and confound.
Marius and Sylla to this end were nursed,
Rome with two Neros and a Caius cursed;
II
Domitian and the latter Antonine;
And, lifted from the lowest rabble's lees,
To imperial place and puissance, Maximine:
Hence Thebes to cruel Creon bent her knees,
Mezentius ruled the subject Agiline,
Fattening his fields with blood. To pests like these
Our Italy was given in later day,
To Lombard, Goth, and Hun a bleeding prey.
III
What shall I of fierce Attila, what say
Of wicked Ezzeline, and hundreds more?
Whom, because men still trod the crooked way,
God sent them for their pain and torment sore.
Of this ourselves have made a clear assay,
As well as those who lived in days of yore;
Consigned to ravening wolves, ordained to keep
Us, his ill-nurturing and unuseful sheep;
IV
Who, as if having more than served to fill
Their hungry maw, invite from foreign wood
Beyond the mountain, wolves of greedier will,
With them to be partakers of their food.
The bones which Thrasymene and Trebbia fill,
And Cannae, seem but few to what are strewed
On fattened field and bank, where on their way
Adda and Mella, Ronco and Tarro stray.
[...] Read more
poem by Ludovico Ariosto
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A Minstrel In The Gallery
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes - observed the spaces between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters - freshly
day-glo'd factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing on the
parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers - T.V.
documentary makers (over-fed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends
he'd made.
[Instrumental]
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes - observed the spaces in between the old men's cackle.
And he brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he
waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in everyone.
Hey!
He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing on the
parts they never mention (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers - T.V.
documentary makers (over-fed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends
he'd made.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down on the rabbit-run.
And he threw away his looking-glass and saw his face in everyone.
Hey!
The Minstrel in the Gallery. Yes!
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes. Yeah!
Mm. The Minstrel in the Gallery
song performed by Jethro Tull
Added by Lucian Velea
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The White Cliffs
I
I have loved England, dearly and deeply,
Since that first morning, shining and pure,
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover,
I was a traveller, the guest of a week;
Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover',
Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger,
Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger,
Only the English are really her own.
II
It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—
Lives there a novel-reader who has not
At some time wept for those delightful girls,
Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls,
In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques,
Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks
Hearts just as hot - hotter perhaps than those
Whose owners now abandon hats and hose?
Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill
Loving against her noble parent's will
A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm
Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm
At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night
Before his regiment goes off to fight;
And see him the next morning, in the park,
Complete in busbee, marching to embark.
I had read freely, even as a child,
Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde
But many novels of an earlier day—
Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey,
Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's Red As a Rose,
Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows
What others. Now, I thought, I was to see
Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee,
I cared for none and no one cared for me.
III
A light blue carpet on the stair
And tall young footmen everywhere,
Tall young men with English faces
Standing rigidly in their places,
Rows and rows of them stiff and staid
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poem by Alice Duer Miller
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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Believer's Jointure : Chapter II.
Containing the Marks and Characters of the Believer in Christ; together with some further privileges and grounds of comfort to the Saints.
Sect. I.
Doubting Believers called to examine, by marks drawn from their love to Him and his presence, their view of his glory, and their being emptied of Self-Righteousness, &c.
Good news! but, says the drooping bride,
Ah! what's all this to me?
Thou doubt'st thy right, when shadows hide
Thy Husband's face from thee.
Though sin and guilt thy spirit faints,
And trembling fears thy fate;
But harbour not thy groundless plaints,
Thy Husband's advent wait.
Thou sobb'st, 'O were I sure he's mine,
This would give glad'ning ease;'
And say'st, Though wants and woes combine,
Thy Husband would thee please.
But up and down, and seldom clear,
Inclos'd with hellish routs;
Yet yield thou not, nor foster fear:
Thy Husband hates thy doubts.
Thy cries and tears may slighted seem,
And barr'd from present ease;
Yet blame thyself, but never dream
Thy Husband's ill to please.
Thy jealous unbelieving heart
Still droops, and knows not why;
Then prove thyself to ease thy smart,
Thy Husband bids the try.
The following questions put to the
As scripture-marks, may tell
And shew, what'er thy failings be,
Thy Husband loves thee well.
MARKS.
Art thou content when he's away?
Can earth allay thy pants?
If conscience witness, won't it say,
Thy Husband's all thou wants?
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poem by Ralph Erskine
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