Great Throughts Treasury

"Different minds incline to different objects; one pursues the vast alone, the wonderful, the wild; another sighs for harmony and grace, and gentlest beauty."

"The immortal mind, superior to his fate, amid the outrage of external things, firm as the solid base of this great world, rests on his own foundation. Blow, ye winds! Ye waves! Ye thunders! Roll your tempests on! Shake, ye old pillars of the marble sky! Till at its orbs and all its worlds of fire be loosen'd from their seats; yet still serene, the unconquer'd mind looks down upon the wreck; and ever stronger as the storms advance, firm through the closing ruin holds is way, when nature calls him to the destin'd goal."

"Amoret - If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fix'd in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell-- What fair can Amoret excel? Beholt that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet--she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen-- We naught but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe. But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half the sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by. This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part; This gives the most unbounded sway; This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of Time, Sweet Amoret in all her prime. "

"On The Winter Solstice - The radiant ruler of the year At length his wintry goal attains; Soon to reverse the long career, And northward bend his steady reins. Now, piercing half Potosi's height, Prone rush the fiery floods of light Ripening the mountain's silver stores: While, in some cavern's horrid shade, The panting Indian hides his head, And oft the approach of eve implores. But lo, on this deserted coast, How pale the sun! how thick the air! Mustering his storms, a sordid host, Lo, Winter desolates the year. The fields resign their latest bloom; No more the breezes waft perfume, No more the streams in music roll: But snows fall dark, or rains resound; And, while great Nature mourns around, Her griefs infect the human soul. Hence the loud city's busy throngs Urge the warm bowl and splendid fire: Harmonious dances, festive songs, Against the spiteful heaven conspire. Meantime, perhaps, with tender fears Some village dame the curfew hears, While round the hearth her children play: At morn their father went abroad; The moon is sunk, and deep the road; She sighs, and vonders at his stay. But thou, my lyre, awake, arise, And hail the sun's returning force: Even now he climbs the northern skies, And health and hope attend his course. Then louder howl the aerial waste, Be earth with keener cold embraced, Yet gentle hours advance their wing; And Fancy, mocking Winter's might, With flowers and dews and streaming light Already decks the new-born Spring. O fountain of the golden day, Could mortal vows promote thy speed, How soon before thy vernal ray Should each unkindly damp recede! How soon each hovering tempest fly, Whose stores for mischief arm the sky, Prompt on our heads to burst amain, To rend the forest from the steep, Or, thundering o'er the Baltic deep, To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain! But let not man's unequal views Presume o'er Nature and her laws: 'Tis his with grateful joy to use The indulgence of the Sovereign Cause; Secure that health and beauty springs Through this majestic frame of things, Beyond what he can reach to know; And that Heaven's all-subduing will, With good, the progeny of ill, Attempereth every state below. How pleasing wears the wintry night, Spent with the old illustrious dead! While, by the taper's trembling light, I seem those awful scenes to tread Where chiefs or legislators lie, Whose triumphs move before my eye, In arms and antique pomp array'd; While now I taste the Ionian song, Now bend to Plato's godlike tongue Resounding through the olive shade. But should some cheerful, equal friend Bid leave the studious page a while. Let mirth on wisdom then attend, And social ease on learned toil. Then while, at love's uncareful shrine, Each dictates to the god of wine Her name whom all his hopes obey, What flattering dreams each bosom warm, While absence, heightening every charm, Invokes the slow-returning May! May, thou delight of heaven and earth, When will thy genial star arise? The auspicious morn, which gives thee birth, Shall bring Eudora to my eyes. Within her sylvan haunt, behold, As in the happy garden old, She moves like that primeval fair: Thither, ye silver-sounding lyres, Ye tender smiles, ye chaste desires, Fond hope and mutual faith, repair. And if believing love can read His better omens in her eye, Then shall my fears, O charming maid, And every pain of absence die: Then shall my jocund harp, attuned To thy true ear, with sweeter sound Pursue the free Horatian song: Old Tyne shall listen to my tale, And Echo, down the bordering vale, The liquid melody prolong."

"The Complaint - Away! Away! Tempt me no more, insidious Love: Thy soothing sway Long did my youthful bosom prove: At length thy treason is discern'd, At length some dear-bought caution earn'd: Away! nor hope my riper age to move. I know, I see Her merit. Needs it now be shown, Alas! to me? How often, to myself unknown, The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid Have I admired! How often said-- What joy to call a heart like hers one's own! But, flattering god, O squanderer of content and ease In thy abode Will care's rude lesson learn to please? O say, deceiver, hast thou won Proud Fortune to attend thy throne, Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees?"

"To The Must - Queen of my songs, harmonious maid, Ah! why hast thou withdrawn thy aid? Ah! why forsaken thus my breast With inauspicious damps oppress'd? Where is the dread prophetic heat With which my bosom wont to beat? Where all the bright mysterious dreams Of haunted groves and tuneful streams, That woo'd my genius to divinest themes? Say, goddess, can the festal board, Or young Olympia's form adored; Say, can the pomp of promised fame Relume thy faint, thy dying flame? Or have melodious airs the power To give one free, poetic hour? Or, from amid the Elysian train, The soul of Milton shall I gain, To win thee back with some celestial strain? O powerful strain! O sacred soul! His numbers every sense control: And now again my bosom burns; The Muse, the Muse herself returns. Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd, I hail'd the fair immortal guest, When first she seal'd me for her own, Made all her blissful treasures known, And bade me swear to follow Her alone."

"On Love - No, foolish youth--To virtuous fame If now thy early hopes be vow'd, If true Ambition's nobler flame Command thy footsteps from the crowd, Lean not to Love's enchanting snare; His songs, his words, his looks beware, Nor join his votaries, the young and fair. By thought, by dangers, and by toils, The wreath of just renown is worn; Nor will Ambition's awful spoils The flowery pomp of ease adorn: But Love unbends the force of thought; By Love unmanly fears are taught; And Love's reward with gaudy Sloth is bought. Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays, And heard from many a zealous breast, The pleasing tale of Beauty's praise In Wisdom's lofty language dress'd; Of Beauty powerful to impart Each finer sense, each comelier art, And sooth and polish man's ungentle heart. If then, from Love's deceit secure, Thus far alone thy wishes tend, Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour On Delia's vernal walk descend: Go, while the golden light serene, The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene, Becomes the presence of the rural queen. Attend, while that harmonious tongue Each bosom, each desire commands: Apollo's lute by Hermes strung, And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands, Attend. I feel a force divine, O Delia, win my thoughts to thine; That half the colour of thy life is mine. Yet conscious of the dangerous charm, Soon would I turn my steps away; Nor oft provoke the lovely harm, Nor lull my reason's watchful sway. But thou, my friend--I hear thy sighs: Alas! I read thy downcast eyes; And thy tongue falters; and thy colour flies. So soon again to meet the fair? So pensive all this absent hour? O yet, unlucky youth, beware, While yet to think is in thy power. In vain with friendship's flattering name Thy passion veils its inward shame; Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame! Once, I remember, new to Love, And dreading his tyrannic chain, I sought a gentle maid, to prove What peaceful joys in friendship reign. Whence we forsooth might safely stand, And pitying view the lovesick band, And mock the winged boy's malicious hand. Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day, To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd; While I exulted to survey One generous woman's real mind: Till Friendship soon my languid breast Each night with unknown cares possess'd, Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd. Fool that I was--And now, e'en now While thus I preach the Stoic strain, Unless I shun Olympia's view, An hour unsays it all again. O friend!--when Love directs her eyes To pierce where every passion lies, Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?"

"On Love Of Praise - Of all the springs within the mind Which prompt her steps in Fortune's maze, From none more pleasing aid we find Than from the genuine love of praise. Nor any partial, private end Such reverence to the public bears; Nor any passion, Virtue's friend, So like to Virtue's self appears. For who in glory can delight Without delight in glorious deeds? What man a charming voice can slight, Who courts the echo that succeeds? But not the echo on the voice More, than on virtue praise depends; To which, of course, its real price The judgment of the praiser lends. If praise then with religious awe From the sole perfect Judge be sought, A nobler aim, a purer law, Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught. With which, in character the same, Though in an humbler sphere it lies, I count that soul of human frame-- The suffrage of the good and wise."

"On Love, To A Friend - No, foolish youth—to virtuous fame If now thy early hopes be vow'd, If true ambition's nobler flame Command thy footsteps from the crowd, Lean not to Love's enchanting snare; His songs, his words, his looks beware, Nor join his votaries, the young and fair. By thought, by dangers, and by toils, The wreath of just renown is worn; Nor will ambition's awful spoils The flowery pomp of ease adorn; But Love unbends the force of thought; By Love unmanly fears are taught; And Love's reward with gaudy sloth is bought. Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays, And heard from many a zealous breast, The pleasing tale of beauty's praise In wisdom's lofty language dress'd; Of beauty powerful to impart Each finer sense, each comelier art, And soothe and polish man's ungentle heart. If then, from Love's deceit secure, Thus far alone thy wishes tend, Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour On Delia's vernal walk descend: Go, while the golden light serene, The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene Becomes the presence of the rural queen. Attend, while that harmonious tongue Each bosom, each desire commands: Apollo's lute by Hermes strung, And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands, Attend. I feel a force divine, O Delia, win my thoughts to thine; That half the colour of thy life is mine. Yet conscious of the dangerous charm, Soon would I turn my steps away; Nor oft provoke the lovely harm, Nor lull my reason's watchful sway. But thou, my friend—I hear thy sighs: Alas, I read thy downcast eyes; And thy tongue falters, and thy colour flies. So soon again to meet the fair? So pensive all this absent hour?— O yet, unlucky youth, beware, While yet to think is in thy power. In vain with friendship's flattering name Thy passion veils its inward shame; Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame! Once, I remember, new to Love, And dreading his tyrannic chain, I sought a gentle maid to prove What peaceful joys in friendship reign: Whence we forsooth might safely stand, And pitying view the love-sick band, And mock the wingèd boy's malicious hand. Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day, To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd; While I exulted to survey One generous woman's real mind: Till friendship soon my languid breast Each night with unknown cares possess'd, Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd. Fool that I was—And now, even now While thus I preach the Stoic strain, Unless I shun Olympia's view, An hour unsays it all again. O friend!—when Love directs her eyes To pierce where every passion lies, Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?"

"Affected Indifference - Yes: you contemn the perjured maid Who all your favourite hopes betray'd: Nor, though her heart should home return, Her tuneful tongue its falsehood mourn, Her winning eyes your faith implore, Would you her hand receive again, Or once dissemble your disdain, Or listen to the syren's theme, Or stoop to love: since now esteem, And confidence, and friendship, is no more. Yet tell me, Phædria, tell me why, When summoning your pride you try To meet her looks with cold neglect, Or cross her walk with slight respect (For so is falsehood best repaid), Whence do your cheeks indignant glow? Why is your struggling tongue so slow? What means that darkness on your brow? As if with all her broken vow You meant the fair apostate to upbraid?"

"For A Column At Runnymede - Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here While Thames among his willows from thy view Retires; O stranger, stay thee, and the scene Around contemplate well. This is the place Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms And stern with conquest, from their tyrant king (Then rendered tame) did challenge and secure The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on Till thou hast blest their memory, and paid Those thanks which God appointed the reward Of public virtue. And if chance thy home Salute thee with a father's honour'd name, Go, call thy sons: instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born."

"To Cheerfulness - How thick the shades of evening close! How pale the sky with weight of snows! Haste, light the tapers, urge the fire, And bid the joyless day retire. ----Alas, in vain I try within To brighten the dejected scene, While roused by grief these fiery pains Tear the frail texture of my veins; While Winter's voice, that storms around, And yon deep death-bell's groaning sound Renew my mind's oppressive gloom, Till starting Horror shakes the room. Is there in nature no kind power To sooth affliction's lonely hour? To blunt the edge of dire disease, And teach these wintry shades to please? Come, Cheerfulness, triumphant fair, Shine through the hovering cloud of care: O sweet language, mild of mien, O Virtue's friend and Pleasure's queen, Assuage the flames that burn my breast, Compose my jarring thoughts to rest; And while thy gracious gifts I feel, My song shall all thy praise reveal. As once ('twas in Astræa's reign) The vernal powers renew'd their train, It happen'd that immortal Love Was ranging through the spheres above, And downward hither cast his eye, The year's returning pomp to spy. He saw the radiant god of day Waft in his car the rosy May; The fragrant Airs and genial Hours Were shedding round him dews and flowers; Before his wheels Aurora pass'd, And Hesper's golden lamp was last. But, fairest of the blooming throng, When Health majestic moved along, Delighted to survey below The joys which from her presence flow, While Earth enliven'd hears her voice, And swains and flocks and fields rejoice; Then mighty Love her charms confess'd, And soon his vows inclined her breast, And, known from that auspicious morn, Thee, pleasing Cheerfulness, was born. Thou, Cheerfulness, by Heaven design'd To sway the movements of the mind, Whatever fretful passion springs, Whatever wayward fortune brings To disarrange the power within, And strain the musical machine; Thou, Goddess, thy attempering hand Doth each discordant string command, Refines the soft, and swells the strong; And, joining Nature's general song, Through many a varying tone unfolds The harmony of human souls. Fair guardian of domestic life, Kind banisher of homebred strife, Nor sullen lip, nor taunting eye Deforms the scene when thou art by: No sickening husband damns the hour Which bound his joys to female power; No pining mother weeps the cares Which parents waste on thankless heirs: The' officious daughters pleased attend; The brother adds the name of friend: By thee with flowers their board is crown'd, With songs from thee their walks resound; And morn with welcome lustre shines, And evening unperceived declines. Is there a youth whose anxious heart Labours with love's unpitied smart? Though now he stray by rills and bowers, And weeping waste the lonely hours, Or if the nymphs her audience deign, Debase the story of his pain With slavish looks, discolour'd eyes, And accents faltering into sighs; Yet thou, auspicious power, with ease Canst yield him happier arts to please, Inform his mien with manlier charms, Instruct his tongue with nobler arms, With more commanding passion move, And teach the dignity of love. Friend to the Muse and all her train, For thee I court the Muse again: The Muse for thee may well exert Her pomp, her charms, her fondest art, Who owes to thee that pleasing sway Which earth and peopled heaven obey. Let Melancholy's plaintive tongue Repeat what later bards have sung; But thine was Homer's ancient might, And thine victorious Pindar's flight: Thy hand each Lesbian wreath attired: Thy lip Sicilian reeds inspired: Thy spirit lent the glad perfume Whence yet the flowers of Teos bloom; Whence yet from Tibur's Sabine vale Delicious blows the' enlivening gale, While Horace calls thy sportive choir, Heroes and nymphs, around his lyre. But see where yonder pensive sage (A prey perhaps to Fortune's rage, Perhaps by tender griefs oppress'd, Or glooms congenial to his breast) Retires in desert scenes to dwell, And bids the joyless world farewell! Alone he treads the' autumnal shade, Alone beneath the _mountain_ laid, He sees the nightly damps ascend, And gathering storms aloft impend; He hears the neighbouring surges roll, And raging thunders shake the pole; Then, struck by every object round, And stunn'd by every horrid sound, He asks a clue for Nature's ways; But Evil haunts him through the maze: He sees ten thousand demons rise To wield the empire of the skies, And Chance and Fate assume the rod, And Malice blot the throne of God.-- O thou, whose pleasing power I sing, Thy lenient influence hither bring; Compose the storm, dispel the gloom, Till Nature wear her wonted bloom, Till fields and shades their sweets exhale, And music swell each opening gale: Then o'er his breast thy softness pour, And let him learn the timely hour To trace the world's benignant laws, And judge of that presiding cause Who founds on discord beauty's reign, Converts to pleasure every pain, Subdues each hostile form to rest, And bids the universe be bless'd. O thou, whose pleasing power I sing, If right I touch the votive string, If equal praise I yield thy name, Still govern thou thy poet's flame; Still with the Muse my bosom share, And sooth to peace intruding Care, But most exert thy pleasing power On Friendship's consecrated hour; And while my Sophron points the road To godlike Wisdom's calm abode, Or warm in Freedom's ancient cause Traceth the source of Albion's laws, Add thou o'er all the generous toil The light of thy unclouded smile. But if, by Fortune's stubborn sway From him and Friendship torn away, I court the Muse's healing spell For griefs that still with absence dwell, Do thou conduct my fancy's dreams To such indulgent placid themes As just the struggling breast may cheer, And just suspend the starting tear, Yet leave that sacred sense of woe Which none but friends and lovers know."

"A double task to paint the finest features of the mind, and to most subtle and mysterious things give color, strength, and motion."

"From bounty issues power."

"Hark! how the gentle echo from her cell talks through the cliffs, and murmuring o'er the stream, repeats the accent--we shall part no more."

"Others of graver mien, behold, adorn 'd with holy ensigns, how sublime they move, and bending oft their sanctimonious eyes, take homage of the simple-minded throng; ambassadors of heaven!"

"And the veil spun from the cobweb fashion of the times, to hid the feeling heart?"

"At last the Muses rose? And scattered? as they flew, their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers to Arno's myrtle border."

"Such and so various are the tastes of men."

"The grateful tear that streams for others' woes."

"The green retreats of Academus."

"The man forget not, though in rags he lies, and know the mortal through a crown's disguise."

"The music of the heart."

"The Pleasures of Imagination - Thou silent power, whose welcome sway charms every anxious thought away; in whose divine oblivion drown'd, sore pain and weary toil grow mild, love is with kinder looks beguiled, and Grief forgets her fondly cherish'd wound; Oh, whither hast thou flown, indulgent god? God of kind shadows and of healing dews, whom dost thou touch with thy Leth‘an rod? Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse?"

"This was Shakespeare's form; who walked in every path of human life, felt every passion; and to all mankind doth now, will ever, that experience yield which his own genius only could acquire."

"Thus was beauty sent from heaven--the lovely mistress of truth and good in this dark world."

"Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys, and eagerly pursues imaginary joys."

"Thus, then, was Beauty sent from heaven, the lovely mistress of Truth and Good in this dark world: for Truth and Good are one; and Beauty dwells in them, and they in her, with like participation."

"Truth and Good are one; and Beauty dwells in them, and they in her."

"We taste the fragrance of the rose."

"What, then, is taste, but those internal powers, active and strong, and feelingly alive to each fine impulse? a discerning sense of decent and sublime, with quick disgust from things deformed, or disarranged, or gross in species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, nor purple state, nor culture, can bestow, but God alone when first his sacred hand imprints the secret bias of the soul."