For Those Who Are Gifted
These gifts to me have not been given,
To let sit and observe their rust.
But to constantly polish and share their lustre.
And I perceive this mission as a must.
For those who are gifted,
With talents they let drift away.
Seem too quick to earn a dollar from them...
Only to quit to say,
The worth of their gifts...
Did not return to them any profit!
These gifts to me have not been given,
To let sit and observe their rust.
But to constantly polish and share their lustre.
And I perceive this mission as a must.
One blessed by God...
Should first serve His purpose.
With a gratefulness to prove,
A decision God has made...
Was done to shine forth a light!
To move where He chooses,
Whether day or night.
Not to smother in unthankfulness.
To offer God one's attititude.
Why do people do this?
Take for granted what God does...
Then choose to dismiss it?
To satify egos others should solicit.
To flaunt and cherish,
As if one merits the attention.
To take and celebrate...
Without a word of God to mention!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto II
THE ARGUMENT
The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal interests;
To share their sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm
Till, in th' Effigy of Rumps, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.
THE learned write, an insect breeze
Is but a mungrel prince of bees,
That falls before a storm on cows,
And stings the founders of his house;
From whose corrupted flesh that breed
Of vermin did at first proceed.
So e're the storm of war broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various rout
Of petulant Capricious sects,
The maggots of corrupted texts,
That first run all religion down,
And after ev'ry swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their mothers got their sons,
That were incapable t' enjoy
That empire any other way;
So PRESBYTER begot the other
Upon the good old Cause, his mother,
Then bore then like the Devil's dam,
Whose son and husband are the same.
And yet no nat'ral tie of blood
Nor int'rest for the common good
Cou'd, when their profits interfer'd,
Get quarter for each other's beard.
For when they thriv'd, they never fadg'd,
But only by the ears engag'd:
Like dogs that snarl about a bone,
And play together when they've none,
As by their truest characters,
Their constant actions, plainly appears.
Rebellion now began, for lack
Of zeal and plunders to grow slack;
The Cause and covenant to lessen,
And Providence to b' out of season:
For now there was no more to purchase
O' th' King's Revenue, and the Churches,
But all divided, shar'd, and gone,
That us'd to urge the Brethren on;
Which forc'd the stubborn'st for the Cause,
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Butler
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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
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Tale V
THE PATRON.
A Borough-Bailiff, who to law was train'd,
A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd,
He had his way in life's rough ocean steer'd
And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd;
He saw where others fail'd, and care had he,
Others in him should not such feelings see:
His sons in various busy states were placed,
And all began the sweets of gain to taste,
Save John, the younger, who, of sprightly parts,
Felt not a love for money-making arts:
In childhood feeble, he, for country air,
Had long resided with a rustic pair;
All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs,
Of lovers' sufferings and of ladies' wrongs;
Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight,
For breach of promise, guilty men to fright;
Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with
these,
All that on idle, ardent spirits seize;
Robbers at land and pirates on the main,
Enchanters foil'd, spells broken, giants slain;
Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers,
Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice
flowers,
And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.
From village-children kept apart by pride,
With such enjoyments, and without a guide,
Inspired by feelings all such works infused,
John snatch'd a pen, and wrote as he perused:
With the like fancy he could make his knight
Slay half a host, and put the rest to flight;
With the like knowledge he could make him ride
From isle to isle at Parthenissa's side;
And with a heart yet free, no busy brain
Form'd wilder notions of delight and pain,
The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain.
Such were the fruits of John's poetic toil -
Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil:
He nothing purposed but with vast delight,
Let Fancy loose, and wonder'd at her flight:
His notions of poetic worth were high,
And of his own still-hoarded poetry; -
These to his father's house he bore with pride,
A miser's treasure, in his room to hide;
Till spurr'd by glory, to a reading friend,
He kindly show'd the sonnets he had penn'd:
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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Drift Away
Drift away, just drift away
Sometimes I wish I could just drift away
They say theres gonna be a river of blood
Its apocalypse now
So were waiting for the flood
The ice is gonna melt, the water gonna rise
And well all go to hell
So theyre keeping us advised
While the dollar falls down
The yen gonna climb
Its a moral decline
And Im losing my mind
I think Ill just drift away
To that island of my dreams
Live in total fantasy
Close my eyes and drift away
Back in the real world
Theres tension everywhere
And the smell of fear
Keeps hanging around and polluting the air
The man on the news is going over the top
Now hell say anything so his show dont flop
Wall streets down, so what
And according to astute market analysis
The worlds gonna stop
They shout the story to the nation
Pass on the panic to the population
This is the end of civilization
Its all over now
Chorus:
Meanwhile, I just drift away
To my island in the sun
Imaginary paradise, perfection
Sometimes I wish I could just drift away
Drift away (drift away)
Drift away (drift away)
Drift away (drift away)
Now all the politicians are running out of hope
Theyve burned all their bridges
Now they just cant cope
And who do we blame now were all going broke?
Its that man over there
Whos hanging from a rope
Newsmen winding up the nation
A little bad news helps circulation
Pass on the panic to the population
Its all over, its all over
Its all over now
Times like this, I just drift away
To my tropical fantasy
[...] Read more
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Talents Die Easily In Africa!
Oh talents, oh talents!
Talents do die easily in Africa;
But, talents are special gifts which,
Money cannot buy.
It is a special gift,
It is in you,
You don't even need a Higher Degree for them;
Talents are everywhere on this earth.
The talents of Africa do die very often,
Who is even ready to listen to them?
The true talents of the Africans go to the drain.
Like a rain on a train,
Like an early wake up call without a view;
Life is really so strange over here in Africa.
I have a dream!
But, who will listen?
My brain is with various talents but,
Who will help me with my dreams?
Talents, talents, talents! !
Africa turns to regress in this field while,
Others do progress!
Our talents can be useful,
It's time we give a helping hand;
Oh talents, oh talents!
It's time we listen to those who have them;
Cos', we are the world.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Ghost - Book IV
Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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Loony Balloon
The worlds spinning round like a looney balloon
Heading for a collision with saturn and mars
And were narrowly missing the man in the moon,
Spinning out of control crashing into the stars.
Have we all lost our gravity, reason and sanity?
Is this the price that we pay?
Have we now lost our way on this looney balloon?
Drift away, just drift away.
Its so easy to just drift away.
Drift away, just drift away.
Drifting away on this looney balloon.
The air is running out, the computers gone down.
The mechanic just panicked, hes nowhere to be found.
So automatic control is just spinning us round
No point screaming in space, you just cant hear a sound.
Now the pilots gone mad, he just jumped overboard
With a lunatic smile on his face
And he laughed as he cut the umbilical chord
Now hes drifting forever in space.
Drift away, just drift away.
Its so easy to just drift away.
Drift away, just drift away
Drifting away on this looney balloon.
Were out of control on this looney balloon
Narrowly missing the planets and stars.
Even optimists say that its all gloom and doom.
Weve got to get somewhere or hit something soon.
First class and economy, we all played the game
For selfish profit and gain.
So together well all go insane on this looney balloon.
Drift away, hey, just drift away,
Drifting away on this looney balloon.
Drift away, hey, just drift away.
Drifting away on this looney balloon.
Drift away, hey,
Drift away. drift away.
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Cyder: Book I
-- -- Honos erit huic quoq; Pomo? Virg.
What Soil the Apple loves, what Care is due
To Orchats, timeliest when to press the Fruits,
Thy Gift, Pomona, in Miltonian Verse
Adventrous I presume to sing; of Verse
Nor skill'd, nor studious: But my Native Soil
Invites me, and the Theme as yet unsung.
Ye Ariconian Knights, and fairest Dames,
To whom propitious Heav'n these Blessings grants,
Attend my Layes; nor hence disdain to learn,
How Nature's Gifts may be improv'd by Art.
And thou, O Mostyn, whose Benevolence,
And Candor, oft experienc'd, Me vouchsaf'd
To knit in Friendship, growing still with Years,
Accept this Pledge of Gratitude and Love.
May it a lasting Monument remain
Of dear Respect; that, when this Body frail
Is moulder'd into Dust, and I become
As I had never been, late Times may know
I once was blest in such a matchless Friend.
Who-e'er expects his lab'ring Trees shou'd bend
With Fruitage, and a kindly Harvest yield,
Be this his first Concern; to find a Tract
Impervious to the Winds, begirt with Hills,
That intercept the Hyperborean Blasts
Tempestuous, and cold Eurus nipping Force,
Noxious to feeble Buds: But to the West
Let him free Entrance grant, let Zephyrs bland
Administer their tepid genial Airs;
Naught fear he from the West, whose gentle Warmth
Discloses well the Earth's all-teeming Womb,
Invigorating tender Seeds; whose Breath
Nurtures the Orange, and the Citron Groves,
Hesperian Fruits, and wafts their Odours sweet
Wide thro' the Air, and distant Shores perfumes.
Nor only do the Hills exclude the Winds:
But, when the blackning Clouds in sprinkling Show'rs
Distill, from the high Summits down the Rain
Runs trickling; with the fertile Moisture chear'd,
The Orchats smile; joyous the Farmers see
Their thriving Plants, and bless the heav'nly Dew.
Next, let the Planter, with Discretion meet,
The Force and Genius of each Soil explore;
To what adapted, what it shuns averse:
[...] Read more
poem by John Arthur Phillips
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Paradise Regained
THE FIRST BOOK
I, WHO erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man's disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man's firm obedience fully tried
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.
Thou Spirit, who led'st this glorious Eremite
Into the desert, his victorious field
Against the spiritual foe, and brought'st him thence 10
By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire,
As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute,
And bear through highth or depth of Nature's bounds,
With prosperous wing full summed, to tell of deeds
Above heroic, though in secret done,
And unrecorded left through many an age:
Worthy to have not remained so long unsung.
Now had the great Proclaimer, with a voice
More awful than the sound of trumpet, cried
Repentance, and Heaven's kingdom nigh at hand 20
To all baptized. To his great baptism flocked
With awe the regions round, and with them came
From Nazareth the son of Joseph deemed
To the flood Jordan--came as then obscure,
Unmarked, unknown. But him the Baptist soon
Descried, divinely warned, and witness bore
As to his worthier, and would have resigned
To him his heavenly office. Nor was long
His witness unconfirmed: on him baptized
Heaven opened, and in likeness of a Dove 30
The Spirit descended, while the Father's voice
From Heaven pronounced him his beloved Son.
That heard the Adversary, who, roving still
About the world, at that assembly famed
Would not be last, and, with the voice divine
Nigh thunder-struck, the exalted man to whom
Such high attest was given a while surveyed
With wonder; then, with envy fraught and rage,
Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air
To council summons all his mighty Peers, 40
Within thick clouds and dark tenfold involved,
A gloomy consistory; and them amidst,
With looks aghast and sad, he thus bespake:--
"O ancient Powers of Air and this wide World
(For much more willingly I mention Air,
This our old conquest, than remember Hell,
Our hated habitation), well ye know
How many ages, as the years of men,
[...] Read more
poem by John Milton
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Who's Living With That Mission?
Who here,
Lives to dance and sing?
Who here,
Lives to hear the birds singing?
And who here,
Lives their life just to give?
Who's living with that mission?
Who's living with that mission?
Who's living with that mission?
Who here,
Wakes up to give a damn?
Who here,
Demands to give a helping hand?
And who here,
Knows that peace has a chance?
Who's living with that mission?
Who's living with that mission?
Who's living with that mission?
Who here,
Thinks about their fellowman?
Who here,
Gives their neighbor understanding?
And who here,
Wants the bleeding done by man...
To end and please them?
Who's living with that mission?
Who's living with that mission?
Who here,
Thinks about what is right?
Who here,
Wants to do that day and night?
And who here,
Prays conflicts and fights
Would end!
Who's living with that mission?
Who's living with that mission?
Who here,
Lives to dance and sing?
Who here,
Lives to hear the birds singing?
And who here,
Lives their life just to give?
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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In Good Hands..
In the hands of a gifted teacher
A classroom is a magical place! ! !
In the hands of a gifted teacher
There's a smile on each child's face.
In the hands of gifted teacher Creative energy is every where.
In the hands of gifted teacher
There's a catalyst who genuinely care.
In the hands of gifted teacher Desire and wonder is awakened.
In the hands of gifted teacherEducation agenda is shaken.
In the hands of gifted teacher Self managment skills are manupulated In the hands of gifted teacherThe best of reality is modeled.
In the hands of gifted teacher Gifts and talents are refined.
In the hands of gifted teacher The desired future is designed.
AND YOR THE TEACHER GIFTED TO MY HANDS! ! ! !
poem by Maanasa Bhaskar
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A Man Could Get Arrested
(tennant/lowe)
--------------
Do it (do it do it do it do it do it...)
Do it do it do it do it do it do it do it do it...
Do it now do it now do it now do it now do it now do it now do it now
Do it (do it do it do it do it...)
Late on tuesday evening, such a commotion in the street
Someone broke a window, and someones head got beat
A wave of breaking bottles, crashed across the city street
And someone got arrested, for the breach of the peace
If you wanna walk (walk walk walk walk)
Dont talk (talk talk talk talk)
Do it! (do it do it do it do it do it do it do it)
If you wanna earn (earn earn earn earn)
Learn (learn learn learn)
How to do it! (do it do it do it do it do it do it do it)
And if you wanna ride (ride ride ride ride)
Dont hide (dont hide)
Do it! (do it do it do it do it do it do it do it do it)
If you wanna stay (stay stay stay)
Dont say (say say say)
Prove it! (prove it prove it prove it prove it prove it prove it)
How much longer are you gonna sit and talk to me?
You got so many problems and a split personality
You want to see a doctor before our love is tested
How much longer a man could get arrested?
If you wanna walk (walk walk walk walk)
Dont talk (talk talk talk talk)
Do it! (do it do it do it do it do it do it do it)
If you wanna earn (earn earn earn earn)
Learn (learn learn learn learn)
How to do it! (do it do it do it do it do it)
And if you wanna ride (ride ride ride ride)
Dont hide (hide hide hide hide hide)
Do it! (do it do it do it do it do it do it)
And if you wanna stay (stay stay stay)
Dont say (say say say)
Prove it! (prove it prove it prove it prove it prove it prove it)
Youve got your health, youve got everything, thats what my doctor said
You may not have much cash, but youve got a roof over your head
Of course I said I loved you, not just cause you insisted
How much longer a man could get arrested?
If you wanna walk (walk walk walk walk)
Dont talk (talk talk talk talk)
Do it! (do it do it do it do it do it do it do it)
If you wanna earn (earn earn earn earn)
Learn (learn learn learn learn)
How to do it! (do it do it do it do it do it do it)
If you wanna ride
Dont hide
[...] Read more
song performed by Pet Shop Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Return!
RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning,
All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn;
Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning
Bears witness that the absent can return,
Return, return.
Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness,
Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn,
Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness
To feed the sorrowy signal for return,
Return, return.
Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings,
I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn,
When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering wings,
Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn--
Burn in the watchfire of return,
Return, return.
Like it, the very flame whereby I pine
Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn
My soul becomes a better soul than mine,
And from its brightening beacon I discern
My starry love go forth from me, and shine
Across the seas a path for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! all night I see it burn,
All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin
Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn--
Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.
Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in,
And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn
As warmly still for thy return;
Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin
Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn
Naught but that votive sign for thy return--
That single suppliant sign for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er
Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn,
And thou, who thro' the window didst discern
The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair
To find no wide eyes watching there,
No wither'd welcome waiting thy return!
A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air,
The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn,
Warm with the famish'd fire that lived to burn--
Burn out its lingering life for thy return,
[...] Read more
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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She Touches A Sad String Of Soft Recall
Return, return! all night my lamp is burning,
All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn;
Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning
Bears witness that the absent can return,
Return, return.
Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness,
Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn,
Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness
To feed the sorrowy signal for return,
Return, return.
Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings,
I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn,
When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering wings,
Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn-
Burn in the watchfire of return,
Return, return.
Like it, the very flame whereby I pine
Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn
My soul becomes a better soul than mine,
And from its brightening beacon I discern
My starry love go forth from me, and shine
Across the seas a path for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! all night I see it burn,
All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin
Of palmèd praying hands that meet and yearn-
Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.
Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in,
And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn
As warmly still for thy return;
Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin
Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn
Nought but that votive sign for thy return-
That single suppliant sign for thy return,
Return, return.
Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er
Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn,
And thou, who thro' the window didst discern
The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair
To find no wide eyes watching there,
[...] Read more
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Third Monarchy, being the Grecian, beginning under Alexander the Great in the 112. Olympiad.
Great Alexander was wise Philips son,
He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon;
The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother,
She to Epirus warlike King was daughter.
This Prince (his father by Pausanias slain)
The twenty first of's age began to reign.
Great were the Gifts of nature which he had,
His education much to those did adde:
By art and nature both he was made fit,
To 'complish that which long before was writ.
The very day of his Nativity
To ground was burnt Dianaes Temple high:
An Omen to their near approaching woe,
Whose glory to the earth this king did throw.
His Rule to Greece he scorn'd should be confin'd,
The Universe scarce bound his proud vast mind.
This is the He-Goat which from Grecia came,
That ran in Choler on the Persian Ram,
That brake his horns, that threw him on the ground
To save him from his might no man was found:
Philip on this great Conquest had an eye,
But death did terminate those thoughts so high.
The Greeks had chose him Captain General,
Which honour to his Son did now befall.
(For as Worlds Monarch now we speak not on,
But as the King of little Macedon)
Restless both day and night his heart then was,
His high resolves which way to bring to pass;
Yet for a while in Greece is forc'd to stay,
Which makes each moment seem more then a day.
Thebes and stiff Athens both 'gainst him rebel,
Their mutinies by valour doth he quell.
This done against both right and natures Laws,
His kinsmen put to death, who gave no cause;
That no rebellion in in his absence be,
Nor making Title unto Sovereignty.
And all whom he suspects or fears will climbe,
Now taste of death least they deserv'd in time,
Nor wonder is t if he in blood begin,
For Cruelty was his parental sin,
Thus eased now of troubles and of fears,
Next spring his course to Asia he steers;
Leavs Sage Antipater, at home to sway,
And through the Hellispont his Ships made way.
Coming to Land, his dart on shore he throws,
Then with alacrity he after goes;
And with a bount'ous heart and courage brave,
His little wealth among his Souldiers gave.
And being ask'd what for himself was left,
Reply'd, enough, sith only hope he kept.
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Million Dollar Face
You were hungry for the lights,
You spent your nights with socialites
Youre a million-dollar baby
With the million dollar blues
And you only gave your time to people you could use
Million dollar face with million dollar grace
You got off to a real bad start
Million dollar face in million dollar lace
You wound with a two cent heart
You were mine for just a little while
But true to style and with a smile you said,
I have to leave you, baby, hold me one more time
cause I know where I should be and its a long hard climb
Million dollar face with million dollar grace
You got off to a real bad start
Million dollar face in million dollar lace
You wound with a two cent heart
Million dollar face with million dollar grace
You got off to a real bad start
Million dollar face in million dollar lace
You wound with a two cent heart
song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Rosciad
Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.
Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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Tirocinium; or, a Review of Schools
It is not from his form, in which we trace
Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace,
That man, the master of this globe, derives
His right of empire over all that lives.
That form, indeed, the associate of a mind
Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind,
That form, the labour of Almighty skill,
Framed for the service of a freeborn will,
Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control,
But borrows all its grandeur from the soul.
Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne,
An intellectual kingdom, all her own.
For her the memory fills her ample page
With truths pour’d down from every distant age;
For her amasses an unbounded store,
The wisdom of great nations, now no more;
Though laden, not encumber’d with her spoil;
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil;
When copiously supplied, then most enlarged;
Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged.
For her the Fancy, roving unconfined,
The present muse of every pensive mind,
Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue
To Nature’s scenes than Nature ever knew.
At her command winds rise and waters roar,
Again she lays them slumbering on the shore;
With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies,
Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise.
For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife
That Grace and Nature have to wage through life,
Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill,
Appointed sage preceptor to the Will,
Condemns, approves, and, with a faithful voice,
Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.
Why did the fiat of a God give birth
To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth?
And, when descending he resigns the skies,
Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise,
Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves,
And owns her power on every shore he laves?
Why do the seasons still enrich the year,
Fruitful and young as in their first career?
Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze:
Summer in haste the thriving charge receives
Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves,
Till Autumn’s fiercer heats and plenteous dews
Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.—
‘Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste,
Power misemploy’d, munificence misplaced,
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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In Good Hands
In the hands of a gifted teacher
a classroom is a magical place
In the hands of a gifted teacher
There’s a smile on each child's face
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
Creative Energy is Everywhere
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
There’s a Catalyst who Genuinely Cares
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
Desire and Wonder is Awakened
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
The Educational Agenda is Shaken
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
Self-Management Skills are Modeled
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
The Best of Reality is Bottled
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
Gifts and Talents are Refined
In the Hands of a Gifted Teacher
The Willed Future is Designed
poem by Ultimate Cyan
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