Consequences are unpitying.
quote by George Eliot
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Poster Girl
Yeah yeah yeah
Jodie was a long way from home
She could make alone look pretty
Her attitude made a part of the landscape
Riding her bike through Alphabet City
She likes to party in the backseat
Under the bridge on the Brooklyn side
Smoking cigarettes in the afterglow
Taking bets that the sun won't rise
She said, "what good is tomorrow without a guarantee?"
She can lick her lips and smile
And make you wanna believe
That the consequences of your actions really are just a game
That your life is just a chain reaction taking you day by day
She says nothing's forever in this crazy world
Still I'm falling in love with the right now poster girl
Right now right now
Oooh
Oh ohh
Jodie liked to shoplift in stores
Ride alongside the rich and famous
Get in elevators, press emergency stop
And make love on the floor 'til the camera made us
And no woman in the world ever made me feel like my heart's on fire
Where she'd walk I followed (followed)
When she left I cried
What good is tomorrow without a guarantee?
I was wrapped around her finger
And I began to believe
That the consequences of your actions really are just a game
That your life is just a chain reaction taking you day by day
She says nothing's forever in this crazy world
Still I'm falling in love with the right now poster girl
That the consequences of your actions really are just a game
That your life is just a chain reaction taking you day by day
She says nothing's forever in this crazy world (crazy world)
Still I'm falling in love with the right now poster girl
La la la la
La la la la
La la la la la (la la la la la)
La la la la
La la la la (la la la la)
La la la la la
Oh
Tell me what you want from me
I've got everything you need
It's getting hard for me to breathe
Let me be your guarantee
That the consequences of your actions really are just a game
That your life is just a chain reaction taking you day by day
[...] Read more
song performed by Backstreet Boys
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War And Peace—A Poem
THOU, bright Futurity! whose prospect beams,
In dawning radiance on our day-light dreams;
Whose lambent meteors and ethereal forms
Gild the dark clouds, and glitter thro' the storms;
On thy broad canvas fancy loves to trace,
Her brilliant Iris, drest in vivid grace;
Paints fair creations in celestial dyes,
Tints of the morn and blushes of the skies;
And bids her scenes perfection's robe assume,
The mingling flush of light, and life, and bloom.
Thou bright Futurity! whose morning-star
Still beams unveil'd, unclouded, from afar;
Whose lovely vista smiling Hope surveys,
Thro' the dim twilight of the silvery haze;
Oh! let the muse expand her wing on high,
Thy shadowy realms, thy worlds unknown descry;
Let her clear eye-beam, flashing lucid light,
Chase from thy forms th' involving shades of night;
Pierce the dark clouds that veil thy noontide rays,
And soar, exulting, in meridian blaze!
In bliss, in grief, thy radiant scenes bestow,
The zest of rapture, or the balm of woe!
For, as the sun-flower to her idol turns,
Glows in his noon, and kindles as he burns;
Expands her bosom to th' exalting fire,
Lives but to gaze, and gazes to admire;
E'en so to thee, the mind incessant flies,
From thy pure source the fount of joy supplies;
And steals from thee the sunny light that throws
A brighter blush on pleasure's living rose!
To thee pale sorrow turns her eye of tears,
Lifts the dim curtain of unmeasur'd years;
And hails thy promis'd land, th' Elysian shore,
Where weeping virtue shall bewail no more!
Now, while the sounds of martial wrath assail,
While the red banner floats upon the gale;
While dark destruction, with his legion-bands,
Waves the bright sabre o'er devoted lands;
While war's dread comet flashes thro' the air,
And fainting nations tremble at the glare;
To thee, Futurity! from scenes like these,
Pale fancy turns, for heav'n-imparted ease;
Turns to behold, in thy unclouded skies,
The orb of peace in bright perspective rise;
And pour around, with joy-diffusing ray,
Life, light, and glory, in a flood of day!
Thou, whose lov'd presence and benignant smile
[...] Read more
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Pharsalia - Book 1
The Crossing of the Rubicon
Wars worse than civil on Emathian plains,
And crime let loose we sing; how Rome's high race
Plunged in her vitals her victorious sword;
Armies akin embattled, with the force
Of all the shaken earth bent on the fray;
And burst asunder, to the common guilt,
A kingdom's compact; eagle with eagle met,
Standard to standard, spear opposed to spear.
Whence, citizens, this rage, this boundless lust
To sate barbarians with the blood of Rome?
Did not the shade of Crassus, wandering still,
Cry for his vengeance? Could ye not have spoiled,
To deck your trophies, haughty Babylon?
Why wage campaigns that send no laurels home?
What lands, what oceans might have been the prize
Of all the blood thus shed in civil strife!
Where Titan rises, where night hides the stars,
'Neath southern noons all quivering with heat,
Or where keen frost that never yields to spring
In icy fetters binds the Scythian main:
Long since barbarians by the Eastern sea
And far Araxes' stream, and those who know
(If any such there be) the birth of Nile
Had felt our yoke. Then, Rome, upon thyself
With all the world beneath thee, if thou must,
Wage this nefarious war, but not till then.
Now view the houses with half-ruined walls
Throughout Italian cities; stone from stone
Has slipped and lies at length; within the home
No guard is found, and in the ancient streets so
Scarce seen the passer by. The fields in vain,
Rugged with brambles and unploughed for years,
Ask for the hand of man; for man is not.
Nor savage Pyrrhus nor the Punic horde
E'er caused such havoc: to no foe was given
To strike thus deep; but civil strife alone
Dealt the fell wound and left the death behind.
Yet if the fates could find no other way
For Nero coming, nor the gods with ease
Gain thrones in heaven; and if the Thunderer
Prevailed not till the giant's war was done,
Complaint is silent. For this boon supreme
Welcome, ye gods, be wickedness and crime;
Thronged with our dead be dire Pharsalia's fields,
Be Punic ghosts avenged by Roman blood;
Add to these ills the toils of Mutina;
[...] Read more
poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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Pharsalia - Book II: The Flight Of Pompeius
This was made plain the anger of the gods;
The universe gave signs Nature reversed
In monstrous tumult fraught with prodigies
Her laws, and prescient spake the coming guilt.
How seemed it just to thee, Olympus' king,
That suffering mortals at thy doom should know
By omens dire the massacre to come?
Or did the primal parent of the world
When first the flames gave way and yielding left
Matter unformed to his subduing hand,
And realms unbalanced, fix by stern decree'
Unalterable laws to bind the whole
(Himself, too, bound by law), so that for aye
All Nature moves within its fated bounds?
Or, is Chance sovereign over all, and we
The sport of Fortune and her turning wheel?
Whate'er be truth, keep thou the future veiled
From mortal vision, and amid their fears
May men still hope.
Thus known how great the woes
The world should suffer, from the truth divine,
A solemn fast was called, the courts were closed,
All men in private garb; no purple hem
Adorned the togas of the chiefs of Rome;
No plaints were uttered, and a voiceless grief
Lay deep in every bosom: as when death
Knocks at some door but enters not as yet,
Before the mother calls the name aloud
Or bids her grieving maidens beat the breast,
While still she marks the glazing eye, and soothes
The stiffening limbs and gazes on the face,
In nameless dread, not sorrow, and in awe
Of death approaching: and with mind distraught
Clings to the dying in a last embrace.
The matrons laid aside their wonted garb:
Crowds filled the temples -- on the unpitying stones
Some dashed their bosoms; others bathed with tears
The statues of the gods; some tore their hair
Upon the holy threshold, and with shrieks
And vows unceasing called upon the names
Of those whom mortals supplicate. Nor all
Lay in the Thunderer's fane: at every shrine
Some prayers are offered which refused shall bring
Reproach on heaven. One whose livid arms
Were dark with blows, whose cheeks with tears bedewed
And riven, cried, 'Beat, mothers, beat the breast,
Tear now the lock; while doubtful in the scales
[...] Read more
poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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Fortunes Faded
They say at chess you've got to kill the queen
And then you've made it
Do you?
A funny thing, a king that gets himself
Assassinated
Hey now, every time I loose
Attitude
You took the town by storm
Now the mess you made is nominated
Do you?
Now put away your welcome,
Soon you'll find you've overstayed it
Hey now, every time I loose
Attitude
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Never mind the consequences of my
Crime this time, my fortune faded
To medicate this state of mind,
You'll find is overrated
Do you?
You saw it all come down and now
Its time to imitate it
Hey now, every time I loose
Attitude
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Nevermind the consequences of my
Crime this time, my fortune faded
Come on God, do I seem bulletproof?
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Nevermind the consequences of my
Crime this time, my fortune faded
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Nevermind the consequences of my
Crime this time, my fortune faded
song performed by Red Hot Chili Peppers
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Fortune Faded
They say in chess you've got to kill the queen
And then you mate it
Oh I? Do you?
A funny thing, a king that gets himself
Assassinated
Hey now, every time I loose
Attitude
You took a town by storm
the mess you made was nominated
Oh I ? Do you?
Now put away your welcome,
Soon you'll find you've overstayed it
Hey now, every time I loose
Attitude
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Never mind the consequences of a crime
is time, my fortunes faded
The medicated state of mind,
You'll find is overrated
Oh I ? Do you?
You saw it all come down and now
Its time to imitate it
Hey now, every time I loose
Attitude
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Never mind the consequences of a crime
is time, my fortunes faded
Come on God, do I seem bulletproof?
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Never mind the consequences of a crime
is time, my fortunes faded
So divine, hell of an elevator,
All the while, my fortune faded,
Never mind the consequences of a crime
is time, my fortunes faded
song performed by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Added by Lucian Velea
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Life just 10% of what happens and 90% of how you react
Life 10% what happens and 90% your reaction on the happenings
We are free to choose
Our response in any given situation
But we are not free to
Choose the consequences of those actions
Our actions,
Those governed by right principles
Bring positive results
Dishonesty in dealing can
Bring social consequences,
Depending on whether or not
We are found out
And
Also are our natural consequences
Fix result of our actions,
Which Indian Philosophy puts as Karma
That means our choice of response, in a way,
Is our choice of consequences
The important and decisive factor in life
Is not what happens to us
But, the way
We take towards what happens
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Just Leave the Teabag In The Cup
Listen up.
Let's not beat around the bush here.
Do you prefer facing the truth?
Or be subjected to the consequences?
'Honestly?
I perceive my chances with the consequences,
As being far more beneficial than any version...
Of your truth!
I've been observing your version of truth for two weeks.
And each day it keeps changing.
Whatever those consequences may be...
I am certain they will be less creative.
I'll take your consequences with a cup of tea.
With lemon and one tablespoon of sugar.'
I don't think you understand how serious these procedures are?
'Oh,
I know you're serious.
I like the water extra hot.
Just leave the teabag in the cup.
I'll do my own pouring.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Truths Introduced Have Come To Stay
It is no longer what 'you' want to accomplish,
That is wished to erase those consequences faced.
Those consequences to be faced,
Are here to stay.
Truths introduced do not fade away.
The picture you view is much broader today.
And the players behind the scene once kept unseen,
Are increasingly getting impatient...
With facts being disguised as temporary discomforts.
Or little 'white' lies unmasked to expose one's innocence,
To unfold!
It is no longer what 'you' want to accomplish,
That is wished to erase those consequences faced.
Those consequences to be faced,
Are here to stay.
Truths introduced do not fade away.
To continue the doing of those same games to be played.
The picture you view is much broader today.
And the players behind the scene once kept unseen,
Are increasingly getting impatient...
With facts being disguised as temporary discomforts.
Or little 'white' lies unmasked to expose one's innocence,
To unfold!
Truths introduced do not fade away.
Not today.
Truths introduced have come to stay...
And,
Enlighten.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Without One Contribution Made
There is some restrained inhibition,
When someone gets recognition.
And words are heard some say are dropped,
Come from both sides of somebody's mouth.
And many know they are misquoted,
From the words they spoke or wrote.
But the lifted words are twisted,
And today that wont be stopped.
Some people like to make their cases,
On what other people say.
And hide themselves from consequences...
Or just run away.
Some people always want to point out,
Who is real and who is fake.
And be the first among the missing...
Without one contribution made.
Unless there are some criticisms,
Planted to be laid.
Some people like to make their cases,
On what other people say.
And hide themselves from consequences...
Or just run away.
There is some restrained inhibition,
When someone gets recognition.
And words are heard some say are dropped,
Come from both sides of somebody's mouth.
Some people always want to point out,
Who is real and who is fake.
And hide themselves from consequences...
Or just run away.
Some people always want to point out,
Who is real and who is fake.
And hide themselves from consequences...
Or just run away.
Without one contribution made.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hit That
The winds of fortune
Don't blow the same
She had to get out
And make a change
She had a kid now
But much too young
That baby daddy's out having fun
He's saying
I'm on a roll
With all the girls I know
His baby momma
She ain't so slow
He's saying
I'm on a roll
With all the girls I know
I know you wanna hit that
I know you wanna hit that, hit that
All the world is gettin' with, I say
Consequences are a lot, but hey
That's the way it
That's the way things go
What was family
Is now a shell
We're raising kids now
Who raise themselves
Sex is a weapon
it's like a drug
It gets him right into that grave that he just dug
She's saying
I'm on the run
I'm chasing guys for fun
Her baby daddy
It ain't his only one
She's saying
I'm on the run
I'm chasing guys for fun
I know you wanna hit that
I know you wanna hit that, hit that
Everybody's gettin' with, I say
Consequences are a lot, but hey
That's the way it
That's the way things go
Well it winds up
Broken up
Really such a shame
But why not
Take a chance
Everything's a game
And it don't stop
Hooking up
[...] Read more
song performed by Offspring
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I So Hate Consequences
And I'm good, good, good to go
I got to get away
Get away from all of my mistakes
So here I sit looking at the traffic lights
The red extinguishes the hope that the green ignites
I want to run away I want to ditch my life
Cause all of my mistakes keep me awake at night
And after all of my alibis desert me
I just want to get by
I don't want nothing to hurt me
I had no idea where my head was at
But if my heart says I'm sorry can we leave it at that
Because I just want for all of this to end
And I so hate consequences
And running from you is what my best defense is
Consequences
God, don't make me face up to this
And I so hate consequences
And running from you is what my best defense is
Cause I know that I let you down
And I don't want to deal with that
It just now hit me this is more than just a set back
And when you spelled it out, well, I guess I didn't get that
And every trace of momentum is gone
And this isn't turning out the way I want
And after all of my alibis desert me
I just want to get by
I don't want nothing to hurt me
I had no idea where my head was at
But if my heart says I'm sorry can we leave it at that
Because I just want for all of this to end
And I spent all last night
Tearing down
Every stoplight
And stop sign in this town
Now I think there might
Be no way to stop me now
I'll get away despite
The fact I'm so weighed down
All of my escapes have been exhausted
I thought I had a way but then I lost it
And my resistance was once much stronger
And I know I can't go on like this much longer
When I got tired of running from you
I stopped right there to catch my breath
There your words they caught my ears
You said, "I miss you son. Come home."
And my sins, they watched me leave
And in my heart I so believed
The love you felt for me was mine
[...] Read more
song performed by Relient K
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(Suicide Poem) Bringing You Back From The Edge
Blood boiling
Temperature rising.
I am a angry man surmising.
Yeah, Yeah, YEAHHH! ! !
Give it up
stop even trying.
Wasting your time.
Blood shot are the eyes.
Being drunk all the time as just a disguise.
Mask it.
Abolish it.
A nonexistent life.
Feel no pain.
Feel no suffering.
No conscience.
This will have dire consequences.
With the best intentions.
Blood boiling.
Temperature rising.
I am a angry man surmising.
Yeah, Yeah, YEAHHH! ! !
I'm trying to reach you.
But you are already gone.
Then you fall to the floor.
Maybe just maybe you weren't given a fair shot in life.
But you're still alive.
I won't let you die.
Even if we got fight.
Suicide on the mind tonight.
Hey man put down the bottle.
Put down all those pills.
Living for only the thrill.
A constant addiction to loss.
I know exactly how your feeling.
Blood boiling
Temperature rising.
I am a angry man surmising.
Yeah, Yeah, YEAHHH! ! !
Give it up
stop even trying.
Wasting your time.
Blood shot arer the eyes.
Being drunk all the time as just a disguise.
Mask it.
Abolish it.
[...] Read more
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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One Morning
Because that I am weak, my love, and ill,
I cannot follow the impatient feet
Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat
Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill
The hour appointed for the air to thrill
And brighten at your coming. O my sweet,
The tale of moments is at last complete
The tryst is broken on the gusty hill!
O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed,
The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not;
Think rather that the clock and sun have lied
And all too early, you have sought the spot.
For lo! despair has darkened all the light,
And till I see your face it still is night.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Inscription
DAY after day,
As I have wandered thro' the fields of life—
Gay, happy fields, bright with the sun and sky—
Flower after flower
Has bloomed beside my path;
5
And I have gathered them, a long-loved handful,
Which I offer now
To the unpitying, cruel-laughing world.
And some are gay,
Sparkling with joy and the bright sun of hope;
10
And some are sad,
Dipped in the crimson of the setting sun,
Or blasted by the cold of winter winds;
Buy all the roots
Are down, far down, within the spirit's depths,
15
Amid the voiceless shadows of the soul,
And each has sprung
From the warm life-blood throbbing in my heart
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Sir Eustace Grey
Scene: --A MADHOUSE.
Persons: --VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT.
VISITOR.
I'll know no more;--the heart is torn
By views of woe we cannot heal;
Long shall I see these things forlorn,
And oft again their griefs shall feel,
As each upon the mind shall steal;
That wan projector's mystic style,
That lumpish idiot leering by,
That peevish idler's ceaseless wile,
And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile,
While struggling for the full-drawn sigh! -
I'll know no more.
PHYSICIAN.
Yes, turn again;
Then speed to happier scenes thy way,
When thou hast view'd, what yet remain,
The ruins of Sir Eustace Grey,
The sport of madness, misery's prey:
But he will no historian need,
His cares, his crimes, will he display,
And show (as one from frenzy freed)
The proud lost mind, the rash-done deed.
That cell to him is Greyling Hall: -
Approach; he'll bid thee welcome there;
Will sometimes for his servant call,
And sometimes point the vacant chair:
He can, with free and easy air,
Appear attentive and polite;
Can veil his woes in manners fair,
And pity with respect excite.
PATIENT.
Who comes?--Approach!--'tis kindly done: -
My learn'd physician, and a friend,
Their pleasures quit, to visit one
Who cannot to their ease attend,
Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend,
As when I lived so blest, so well,
And dreamt not I must soon contend
With those malignant powers of hell.
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Theologian's Tale; Torquemada
In the heroic days when Ferdinand
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land,
And Torquemada, with his subtle brain,
Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain,
In a great castle near Valladolid,
Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid,
There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn,
An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn,
Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone,
And all his actions save this one alone;
This one, so terrible, perhaps 't were best
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest;
Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein
The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin;
A double picture, with its gloom and glow,
The splendor overhead, the death below.
This sombre man counted each day as lost
On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed;
And when he chanced the passing Host to meet,
He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street;
Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought,
As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought.
In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent,
Walked in processions, with his head down bent,
At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen,
And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green.
His sole diversion was to hunt the boar
Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar,
Or with his jingling mules to hurry down
To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town,
Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand,
When Jews were burned, or banished from the land.
Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy;
The demon whose delight is to destroy
Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone,
Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!'
And now, in that old castle in the wood,
His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood,
Returning from their convent school, had made
Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade,
Reminding him of their dead mother's face,
When first she came into that gloomy place,--
A memory in his heart as dim and sweet
As moonlight in a solitary street,
Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown
Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone.
These two fair daughters of a mother dead
Were all the dream had left him as it fled.
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Theologian's Tale; Torquemada
In the heroic days when Ferdinand
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land,
And Torquemada, with his subtle brain,
Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain,
In a great castle near Valladolid,
Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid,
There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn,
An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn,
Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone,
And all his actions save this one alone;
This one, so terrible, perhaps 't were best
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest;
Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein
The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin;
A double picture, with its gloom and glow,
The splendor overhead, the death below.
This sombre man counted each day as lost
On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed;
And when he chanced the passing Host to meet,
He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street;
Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought,
As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought.
In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent,
Walked in processions, with his head down bent,
At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen,
And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green.
His sole diversion was to hunt the boar
Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar,
Or with his jingling mules to hurry down
To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town,
Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand,
When Jews were burned, or banished from the land.
Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy;
The demon whose delight is to destroy
Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone,
Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!'
And now, in that old castle in the wood,
His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood,
Returning from their convent school, had made
Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade,
Reminding him of their dead mother's face,
When first she came into that gloomy place,--
A memory in his heart as dim and sweet
As moonlight in a solitary street,
Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown
Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone.
These two fair daughters of a mother dead
Were all the dream had left him as it fled.
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Four Seasons : Summer
From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,
Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth:
He comes attended by the sultry Hours,
And ever fanning breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Hence, let me haste into the mid-wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom;
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,
And sing the glories of the circling year.
Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,
By mortal seldom found: may Fancy dare,
From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptured glance
Shot on surrounding Heaven, to steal one look
Creative of the Poet, every power
Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.
And thou, my youthful Muse's early friend,
In whom the human graces all unite:
Pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart;
Genius, and wisdom; the gay social sense,
By decency chastised; goodness and wit,
In seldom-meeting harmony combined;
Unblemish'd honour, and an active zeal
For Britain's glory, liberty, and Man:
O Dodington! attend my rural song,
Stoop to my theme, inspirit every line,
And teach me to deserve thy just applause.
With what an awful world-revolving power
Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along
The illimitable void! thus to remain,
Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft has swept the toiling race of men,
And all their labour'd monuments away,
Firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course;
To the kind-temper'd change of night and day,
And of the seasons ever stealing round,
Minutely faithful: such the All-perfect hand!
That poised, impels, and rules the steady whole.
When now no more the alternate Twins are fired,
And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek'd-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east:
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,
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poem by James Thomson
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The Four Seasons : Winter
See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train;
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These! that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms,
Congenial horrors, hail! with frequent foot,
Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
When nursed by careless Solitude I lived,
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy,
Pleased have I wander'd through your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure;
Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst;
Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd,
In the grim evening sky. Thus pass'd the time,
Till through the lucid chambers of the south
Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and smiled.
To thee, the patron of her first essay,
The Muse, O Wilmington! renews her song.
Since has she rounded the revolving year:
Skimm'd the gay Spring; on eagle-pinions borne,
Attempted through the Summer-blaze to rise;
Then swept o'er Autumn with the shadowy gale;
And now among the wintry clouds again,
Roll'd in the doubling storm, she tries to soar;
To swell her note with all the rushing winds;
To suit her sounding cadence to the floods;
As is her theme, her numbers wildly great:
Thrice happy could she fill thy judging ear
With bold description, and with manly thought.
Nor art thou skill'd in awful schemes alone,
And how to make a mighty people thrive;
But equal goodness, sound integrity,
A firm, unshaken, uncorrupted soul,
Amid a sliding age, and burning strong,
Not vainly blazing for thy country's weal,
A steady spirit regularly free;
These, each exalting each, the statesman light
Into the patriot; these, the public hope
And eye to thee converting, bid the Muse
Record what envy dares not flattery call.
Now when the cheerless empire of the sky
To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields,
And fierce Aquarius stains the inverted year;
Hung o'er the farthest verge of Heaven, the sun
Scarce spreads through ether the dejected day.
Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot
His struggling rays, in horizontal lines,
Through the thick air; as clothed in cloudy storm,
Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky;
And, soon-descending, to the long dark night,
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poem by James Thomson
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