I was in college for two years, and just hated it in the '60s.
quote by Kurt Loder
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Related quotes
Long Goodbye
You are always there for me.
When things are tough
When things are rough.
You always have that hidden smile
You can always see it a mile.
You can make me laugh
When all i want to do is cry
You make me change my mind
When all i want to do is die.
You carry my weight, on your shoulders.
You hold me, in your arms
You remember the good times,
You remember the bad times.
You smile at the good ones
Cry at the bad ones.
You are always there for me.
When i'm down,
You help me up
When i'm a fool,
you make up for it
When i'm sorry
You except my apology,
When everything in my world is crashing down, when there is nothing left around, when i can't hear a sound, your there for me.
When all i want to do is cry, when all i want to do is die, when all i want to do is fly, you hold me down to earth.
Thankyou, for smiling those gray clouds away
Thankyou for laughing my pain away
Thankyou for holding me close
Thankyou for choosing me of all people
Thankyou for excepting me
Thankyou for allowing me to be me
Thankyou for letting me cry on your shoulder.
Thankyou for being my bolder to life. Where u can roll away my problams or perhaps smoosh them.
Thankyou for making me laugh, even just for a little while.
Thankyou for being you.
I love who you are.
I love your face, i love your smile
I love your eyes i see awhile
I love your smell, i love your color
I love your toes, i love your fingers.
I love your heart, i love your chest
I love your legs, i love your arms.
I love your soul, so pure and white
I love your feathers and crown that shine bright.
I love your innocence, i love your happiness
I love your laugh, i love your cry
I love how, you don't want me to die
I love how you care, i love how you hold me
I love your infedelity. I love your inner-self most being
I love who you are. I love how you are.
I love how you act. I love you.
[...] Read more
poem by Dakota Waggerman
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Those Who Go To College
Those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope from it to get.
And those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope for them benefits.
So many drift in dreams,
Have no clue what it is they want.
But party just to congregate in hallways,
Just to flaunt...
A getting into college but afraid to polish up,
And succeed.
'Not me.'
Those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope from it to get.
And those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope for them benefits.
So many drift in dreams,
Have no clue what it is they want.
But party just to congregate in hallways,
Just to flaunt...
A getting into college but afraid to polish up,
And succeed.
'I got in college! '
But...
Are you there in college just to party,
Or to polish and succeed?
'I got in college! '
But...
Are you there in college just to party,
Or to polish and succeed?
Since many are in college,
Just to party and to get a degree.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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University Of Central Florida Volleyball
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[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
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College Kids
Someone please save us, us college kids!
What my parents told me is what I did
They said go to school and be a college kid
But in the end I question why I did
Im poor, Im starving, Im flat broke, Ive got no cash to spend
Sell all my books for front row tickets to dave matthews band
My girlfriends at another school, I know this year will test her
I called, found out she had three other boyfriends last semester
And thats why I say
Oh no! not for me, not for me
Call it torture, call it university
No! arts and crafts is all I need
Ill take calligraphy and then Ill make a fake degree
80 grand later I found out that all that I had learned
Is that you should show up to take your finals and your midterms
The party scene is kinda mean, I think its sick and twisted
The navy showed up at my dorm and claimed that I enlisted
And thats why I say
Oh no! not for me, not for me
Call it torture, call it university
No! arts and crafts is all I need
Ill take calligraphy and then Ill make a fake degree
Dont get excited. shell say no without a doubt you see
And Ive decided college girls just wont go out with me
They make me nervous and they always catch me off my guard
Like cell phone services I drop out cause college is too hard
Its time to call my father
Cause its his alma mater
Good grades arent what they seem
I think he knows the dean
Its time to call my father
Cause its his alma mater
He says hes proud of me
But college always was his dream
And I would always say its not for me
Oh no! not for me, not for me
Call it torture, call it university
No! arts and crafts is all I need
Ill take calligraphy and then Ill make a fake degree
Someone please save us, us college kids!
What my parents told me is what I did
They said go to school and be a college kid
But in the end I question why I did
Do what will make you happy
Do what you feel is right
Only but one thing matters
Learn how to live your life
[in background:]
(phi, beta, delta, cappa
Someone please save us, us college kids!
[...] Read more
song performed by Relient K
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Inauguration of the University College
Good people of Dundee, your voices raise,
And to Miss Baxter give great praise;
Rejoice and sing and dance with glee,
Because she has founded a College in Bonnie Dundee.
Therefore loudly in her praise sing,
And make Dundee with your voices ring,
And give honour to whom honour is due,
Because ladies like her are very few.
'Twas on the 5th day of October, in the year of 1883,
That the University College was opened in Dundee,
And the opening proceedings were conducted in the College Hall,
In the presence of ladies and gentlemen both great and small.
Worthy Provost Moncur presided over the meeting,
And received very great greeting;
And Professor Stuart made an eloquent speech there,
And also Lord Dalhousie, I do declare.
Also, the Right Hon W. E. Baxter was there on behalf of his aunt,
And acknowledged her beautiful portrait without any rant,
And said that she requested him to hand it over to the College,
As an incentive to others to teach the ignorant masses knowledge,
Success to Miss Baxter, and praise to the late Doctor Baxter, John Boyd,
For I think the Dundonians ought to feel overjoyed
For their munificent gifts to the town of Dundee,
Which will cause their names to be handed down to posterity.
The College is most handsome and magnificent to be seen,
And Dundee can now almost cope with Edinburgh or Aberdeen,
For the ladies of Dundee can now learn useful knowledge
By going to their own beautiful College.
I hope the ladies and gentlemen of Dundee will try and learn knowledge
At home in Dundee in their nice little College,
Because knowledge is sweeter than honey or jam,
Therefore let them try and gain knowledge as quick as they can.
It certainly is a great boon and an honour to Dundee
To have a College in our midst, which is most charming to see,
All through Miss Baxter and the late Dr Baxter, John Boyd,
Which I hope by the people of Dundee will long be enjoyed
Now since Miss Baxter has lived to see it erected,
I hope by the students she will long be respected
For establishing a College in Bonnie Dundee,
Where learning can be got of a very high degree.
[...] Read more
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Anger Behind The Swing Of This Axe
With every swing of this well worn axe.
I'm thinking of you.
The anger burns right through.
Images flash across my brain.
It's like I'm watching the most hated reruns on television.
And no matter what I do they just keep playing.
I wish I never meant you.
I wish for something sweet instead of something so bitter.
I've been told the taste will fade.
Well I'm still waiting.
With every swing of this well worn axe.
I'm thinking of you.
The anger burns right through.
Images flash across my brain.
It's like I'm watching the most hated reruns on television.
And no matter what I do they just keep playing.
I wish I never meant you.
I wish for something sweet instead of something so bitter.
I've been told the taste will fade.
Well I'm still waiting..
I did everything right and it still went so wrong.
Perfection in the moment and now its gone.
If I only knew what I know now.
I would have ran for the hills.
Never looked back.
Like a ghost completely disappeared.
Across the hemisphere.
Above the highest atmosphere.
Mind you they are limitation I grant you.
But still I don't think it's that far of an exaggeration.
With every swing of this well worn axe.
I'm thinking of you.
The anger burns right through.
Images flash across my brain.
It's like I'm watching the most hated reruns on television.
And no matter what I do they just keep playing.
I wish I never meant you.
I wish for something sweet instead of something so bitter.
I've been told the taste will fade.
Well I'm still waiting.
With every swing of this well worn axe.
I'm thinking of you.
The anger burns right through.
[...] Read more
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Using Boot Camp
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[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
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The Lawyer’s First Tale: Primitiæ or Third Cousins
I
‘Dearest of boys, please come to-day,
Papa and mama have bid me say,
They hope you’ll dine with us at three;
They will be out till then, you see,
But you will start at once, you know,
And come as fast as you can go.
Next week they hope you’ll come and stay
Some time before you go away.
Dear boy, how pleasant it will be,
Ever your dearest Emily!’
Twelve years of age was I, and she
Fourteen, when thus she wrote to me,
A schoolboy, with an uncle spending
My holidays, then nearly ending.
My uncle lived the mountain o’er,
A rector, and a bachelor;
The vicarage was by the sea,
That was the home of Emily:
The windows to the front looked down
Across a single-streeted town,
Far as to where Worms-head was seen,
Dim with ten watery miles between;
The Carnedd mountains on the right
With stony masses filled the sight;
To left the open sea; the bay
In a blue plain before you lay.
A garden, full of fruit, extends,
Stone-walled, above the house, and ends
With a locked door, that by a porch
Admits to churchyard and to church;
Farm-buildings nearer on one side,
And glebe, and then the countrywide.
I and my cousin Emily
Were cousins in the third degree;
My mother near of kin was reckoned
To hers, who was my mother’s second:
My cousinship I held from her.
Such an amount of girls there were,
At first one really was perplexed:
’Twas Patty first, and Lydia next,
And Emily the third, and then,
Philippa, Phoebe, Mary Gwen.
Six were they, you perceive, in all;
And portraits fading on the wall,
Grandmothers, heroines of old,
And aunts of aunts, with scrolls that told
Their names and dates, were there to show
Why these had all been christened so.
[...] Read more
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough from Mari Magno or Tales on Board
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tale XV
ADVICE; OR THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.
A wealthy Lord of far-extended land
Had all that pleased him placed at his command;
Widow'd of late, but finding much relief
In the world's comforts, he dismiss'd his grief;
He was by marriage of his daughters eased,
And knew his sons could marry if they pleased;
Meantime in travel he indulged the boys,
And kept no spy nor partner of his joys.
These joys, indeed, were of the grosser kind,
That fed the cravings of an earthly mind;
A mind that, conscious of its own excess,
Felt the reproach his neighbours would express.
Long at th' indulgent board he loved to sit,
Where joy was laughter, and profaneness wit;
And such the guest and manners of the hall,
No wedded lady on the 'Squire would call:
Here reign'd a Favourite, and her triumph gain'd
O'er other favourites who before had reign'd;
Reserved and modest seemed the nymph to be,
Knowing her lord was charm'd with modesty;
For he, a sportsman keen, the more enjoy'd,
The greater value had the thing destroyed.
Our 'Squire declared, that from a wife released,
He would no more give trouble to a Priest;
Seem'd it not, then, ungrateful and unkind
That he should trouble from the priesthood find?
The Church he honour'd, and he gave the due
And full respect to every son he knew;
But envied those who had the luck to meet
A gentle pastor, civil and discreet;
Who never bold and hostile sermon penned,
To wound a sinner, or to shame a friend;
One whom no being either shunn'd or fear'd:
Such must be loved wherever they appear'd.
Not such the stern old Rector of the time,
Who soothed no culprit, and who spared no crime;
Who would his fears and his contempt express
For irreligion and licentiousness;
Of him our Village Lord, his guests among,
By speech vindictive proved his feelings stung.
'Were he a bigot,' said the 'Squire, 'whose zeal
Condemn'd us all, I should disdain to feel:
But when a man of parts, in college train'd,
Prates of our conduct, who would not be pain'd?
While he declaims (where no one dares reply)
On men abandon'd, grov'ling in the sty
(Like beasts in human shape) of shameless luxury.
Yet with a patriot's zeal I stand the shock
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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On The Pleasures Of College Life
With tears I leave these academic bowers,
And cease to cull the scientific flowers;
With tears I hail the fair succeeding train,
And take my exit with a breast of pain.
The Fresh may trace these wonders as they smile;
The stream of science like the river Nile,
Reflecting mental beauties as it flows,
Which all the charms of College life disclose;
This sacred current as it runs refines,
Whilst Byron sings and Shakspeare's mirror shines.
First like a garden flower did I rise,
When on the college bloom I cast my eyes;
I strove to emulate each smiling gem,
Resolved to wear the classic diadem;
But when the Freshman's garden breeze was gone;
Around me spread a vast extensive lawn;
'Twas there the muse of college life begun,
Beneath the rays of erudition's sun,
Where study drew the mystic focus down,
And lit the lamp of nature with renown;
There first I heard the epic thunders roll,
And Homer's light'ning darted through my soul.
Hard was the task to trace each devious line,
Though Locke and Newton bade me soar and shine;
I sunk beneath the heat of Franklin's blaze,
And struck the notes of philosophic praise;
With timid thought I strove the test to stand,
Reclining on a cultivated land,
Which often spread beneath a college bower,
And thus invoked the intellectual shower;
E'en that fond sire on whose depilous crown,
The smile of courts and states shall shed renown;
Now far above the noise of country strife,
I frown upon the gloom of rustic life,
Where no pure stream of bright distinction flows,
No mark between the thistle and the rose;
One's like a bird encaged and bare of food,
Borne by the fowler from his native wood,
Where sprightly oft he sprung from spray to spray,
And cheer'd the forest with his artless lay,
Or fluttered o'er the purling brook at will,
Sung in the dale or soar'd above the hill.
Such are the liberal charms of college life,
Where pleasure flows without a breeze of strife;
And such would be my pain if cast away,
Without the blooms of study to display.
Beware, ye college birds, again beware,
And shun the fowler with his subtile snare;
[...] Read more
poem by George Moses Horton
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Tamar
I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.
The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Crippled by Knowledge
The wayward way of thinking has always been: “Son, I want you to go to college, graduate with a degree so you will have the education to secure a well-paying job. You know back in my day, I was able to go to college, so I want to make sure you have every opportunity to! ”
The inevitable downfall: The rise in college tuition, along with the decrease in federal aid for working middle class families’, students and their parents are placed under enormous pressure in paying back mass amounts of student loan debt.
The vicious cycles remains: Parents could not afford college for themselves ' Parents want better for their kids ' Parents struggle daily and sacrifice their home, their livelihood to ensure their child will have the opportunity at a college education ' Casting a dark cloud over the excitement of their child’s graduation - Four years in a state school and one bachelors degree later ' Parents are faced with a $500 a month student loan payment ' Their son will begin paying on his portion of the loan next month.
The pleasures in being a working middle class family in today’s society. Parents who in the course of hard work and determination established careers with little to no higher education, providing and making the ends meet. Nevertheless, no tuition grants or federal aid for their hopeful first generation college student. “Son, we make too much money for you to qualify for grants. I know who would think a daily struggle is equivalent to making too much money. It is simply loans for us, and I'm not sure we can afford the $568 a month payment. I guess we will manage like we always have. I sure didn't foresee this worry and grief when I just wanted better for you.'
His son, an elementary school teacher in a low-socioeconomic urban school district has hopes that each and every child in his classroom will have the opportunity to pursue higher education. Thoughts of his monthly struggle on a state teacher’s salary to make ends meet and pay back his student loans, escape him every time he walks into the classroom full of young minds craving to learn.
The children we raise and educate today are the minds that will drive our society into the 21-century. Must you realize you are sacrificing the well-being our nation and placing the future of our society in jeopardy to only have history repeat itself. Senators, congressmen, lawyers and lobbyists almost certainly would not have had the opportunity to be where they are now without the support and devotion of their underpaid and overworked school teachers. Everyday leaders such as school teachers and their hard working families do not deserve the crippling burden of outrageous monthly student loan payments when the end goal is to simply further their education in order to influence and guide the society that will lead our nation’s future.
If educators take a primary role in being the driving force behind a society of accountable well-informed people; I can only help to wonder if serving in our nation’s military can pay back student loans, why can’t serving in our nation’s classrooms pay back student loans.
© 2010 April Michelle
poem by April Michelle
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Three Women
My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.
Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.
Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.
Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.
1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.
Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,
[...] Read more
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Our Time
I may be dead, honey
But I was left with my eyes
And underneath, sugar
Well I've been stung by your lies
And my heart, baby
It's cold and blue
We're two of a kind baby
Me and you
It's our time, sweet baby
To break on through
It's the year to hated
So glad that we made it
'Cause all the kids in the street
Whisper sounds that sweet
The stars under their feet
Well it's the year to be hated
One two ready go
It's our time (x7)
To be hated
All right
To be hated
Come on kids
It's our time (x7)
To be hated
All right
Well it's the year to be hated
song performed by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Our Time
I may be dead, honey
But I was left with my eyes
And underneath, sugar
Well I've been stung by your lies
And my heart, baby
It's cold and blue
We're two of a kind baby
Me and you
It's our time, sweet baby
To break on through
It's the year to hated
So glad that we made it
'Cause all the kids in the street
Whisper sounds that sweet
The stars under their feet
Well it's the year to be hated
One two ready go
It's our time (x7)
To be hated
All right
To be hated
Come on kids
It's our time (x7)
To be hated
All right
Well it's the year to be hated
song performed by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Soboba
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[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
Added by Poetry Lover
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Cambridge
Cambridge is Brueghel's Village come to life
Warren of Gothic windows, red brick walls
Eating, laughing, drinking on the streets
Visitors throng the eateries and halls
Ring Toni's Ice cream van and market stalls
See there, a wattle fence, a low thatched roof
Clipped cleanly as a tonsured, shiny friar!
Ale houses, colleges, and grazing cows
All line the River Cam, by College spire
Daffodils, aconites, anemones,
Swans gliding up to punts along the backs
Sun dappled bridges, lazy, languid days
The splash of water raised by oar smacks
A cycling city, all the world is here
Queen's College, where Erasmus came to teach
Labelling local girls ‘the kissing kind'
Oh, Youth's the time to suck life like a peach
John Harvard, an Emmanuel graduate
Son of a Southwark butcher, crossed the seas
Funding a college in the Pilgrim World
His name, his library, success's keys
Magdalene College houses Pepys's diary
Christ's College boasts bee-hives, a mulberry tree
That shaded Milton as he wrote his poems
None could compose so powerfully as he
Corpus Christi holds King Alfred's book
The Anglo Saxon Chronicle and Psalter
Once owned by Thomas Becket, martyred man,
Murdered within the sight of holy altar
The College of St John set on the Cam
Beside the Bridge of Sighs, has a Great Gate
With mythic beasts. Three saints attended
Here, along with bishops and great heads of state
Nobel Prize winners, Huxton, Bragg, et al
Came up to Trinity, and that bête noire,
Lord Byron, kept his pet bear Bruin here
Down in the stables, poetry's dark star
And the rain falls out of the Heavens
And sparkles, with sun distilled
Like the thoughts of the Cambridge scholars
Who the Book of Knowledge has filled
poem by Sheena Blackhall
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A Vision of a Wrangler, of a University, of Pedantry, and of Philosophy
Deep St. Mary's bell had sounded,
And the twelve notes gently rounded
Endless chimneys that surrounded
My abode in Trinity.
(Letter G, Old Court, South Attics),
I shut up my mathematics,
That confounded hydrostatics --
Sink it in the deepest sea!
In the grate the flickering embers
Served to show how dull November’s
Fogs had stamped my torpid members,
Like a plucked and skinny goose.
And as I prepared for bed, I
Asked myself with voice unsteady,
If of all the stuff I read, I
Ever made the slightest use.
Late to bed and early rising,
Ever luxury despising,
Ever training, never "sizing,"
I have suffered with the rest.
Yellow cheek and forehead ruddy,
Memory confused and muddy,
These are the effects of study
Of a subject so unblest.
Look beyond, and see the wrangler,
Now become a College dangler,
Court some spiritual angler,
Nibbling at his golden bait.
Hear him silence restive Reason,
Her advice is out of season,
While her lord is plotting treason
Gainst himself, and Church or State.
See him next with place and pension,
And the very best intention
Of upholding that Convention
Under which his fortunes rose.
Every scruple is rejected,
With his cherished schemes connected,
"Higher Powers may be neglected --
His result no further goes."
Much he lauds the education
Which has raised to lofty station,
Men, whose powers of calculation
Calculation’s self defied.
How the learned fool would wonder
[...] Read more
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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The four Monarchyes, the Assyrian being the first, beginning under Nimrod, 131. Years after the Floo
When time was young, & World in Infancy,
Man did not proudly strive for Soveraignty:
But each one thought his petty Rule was high,
If of his house he held the Monarchy.
This was the golden Age, but after came
The boisterous son of Chus, Grand-Child to Ham,
That mighty Hunter, who in his strong toyles
Both Beasts and Men subjected to his spoyles:
The strong foundation of proud Babel laid,
Erech, Accad, and Culneh also made.
These were his first, all stood in Shinar land,
From thence he went Assyria to command,
And mighty Niniveh, he there begun,
Not finished till he his race had run.
Resen, Caleh, and Rehoboth likewise
By him to Cities eminent did rise.
Of Saturn, he was the Original,
Whom the succeeding times a God did call,
When thus with rule, he had been dignifi'd,
One hundred fourteen years he after dy'd.
Belus.
Great Nimrod dead, Belus the next his Son
Confirms the rule, his Father had begun;
Whose acts and power is not for certainty
Left to the world, by any History.
But yet this blot for ever on him lies,
He taught the people first to Idolize:
Titles Divine he to himself did take,
Alive and dead, a God they did him make.
This is that Bel the Chaldees worshiped,
Whose Priests in Stories oft are mentioned;
This is that Baal to whom the Israelites
So oft profanely offered sacred Rites:
This is Beelzebub God of Ekronites,
Likewise Baalpeor of the Mohabites,
His reign was short, for as I calculate,
At twenty five ended his Regal date.
Ninus.
His Father dead, Ninus begins his reign,
Transfers his seat to the Assyrian plain;
And mighty Nineveh more mighty made,
Whose Foundation was by his Grand-sire laid:
Four hundred forty Furlongs wall'd about,
On which stood fifteen hundred Towers stout.
The walls one hundred sixty foot upright,
So broad three Chariots run abrest there might.
Upon the pleasant banks of Tygris floud
This stately Seat of warlike Ninus stood:
This Ninus for a God his Father canonized,
To whom the sottish people sacrificed.
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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