All Poems

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Ad Quintilianum

© Robert Louis Stevenson

O CHIEF director of the growing race,
Of Rome the glory and of Rome the grace,
Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgive
Before from labour I make haste to live?

Ad Piscatorem

© Robert Louis Stevenson

FOR these are sacred fishes all
Who know that lord that is the lord of all;
Come to the brim and nose the friendly hand
That sways and can beshadow all the land.

Ad Olum

© Robert Louis Stevenson

CALL me not rebel, though { here at every word
{in what I sing
If I no longer hail thee { King and Lord
{ Lord and King

Ad Nepotem

© Robert Louis Stevenson

And lose the prime of thy Falernian?
Hoard casks of money, if to hoard be thine;
But let thy daughter drink a younger wine!
Let her go rich and wise, in silk and fur;

Ad Martialem

© Robert Louis Stevenson

GO(D) knows, my Martial, if we two could be
To enjoy our days set wholly free;
To the true life together bend our mind,
And take a furlough from the falser kind.

Ad Magistrum Ludi

© Robert Louis Stevenson

NOW in the sky
And on the hearth of
Now in a drawer the direful cane,
That sceptre of the . . . reign,

About The Sheltered Garden Ground

© Robert Louis Stevenson

ABOUT the sheltered garden ground
The trees stand strangely still.
The vale ne'er seemed so deep before,
Nor yet so high the hill.

A Valentine's Song

© Robert Louis Stevenson

MOTLEY I count the only wear
That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise,
Who boldly smile upon despair
And shake their bells in Grandam Grundy's eyes.

A Thought

© Robert Louis Stevenson

It is very nice to think
The world is full of meat and drink,
With little children saying grace
In every Christian kind of place.

A Good Play

© Robert Louis Stevenson

We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back-bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of soft pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play. And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,
And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good. My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,
And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer. I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,

To The Pious Memory Of The Accomplished Young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew

© John Dryden

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the Blest;
Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Song To A Fair Young Lady Going Out Of Town In The Spring

© John Dryden

Ask not the cause why sullen spring
So long delays her flow'rs to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year?
Chloris is gone; and Fate provides
To make it spring where she resides.

Song From Amphitryon

© John Dryden

Air Iris I love, and hourly I die,
But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye:
She's fickle and false, and there we agree,
For I am as false and as fickle as she.

Veni, Creator Spiritus

© John Dryden

Creator Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come, visit ev'ry pious mind;
Come, pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin, and sorrow set us free;
And make thy temples worthy Thee.

To My Dear Friend Mr. Congreve On His Commedy Call'd The Double Dealer

© John Dryden

Well then; the promis'd hour is come at last;
The present age of wit obscures the past:
Strong were our sires; and as they fought they writ,
Conqu'ring with force of arms, and dint of wit;

Your Hay It Is Mow'd, And Your Corn Is Reap'd

© John Dryden

(Man.) We ha' cheated the parson, we'll cheat him agen,
For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten?
One in ten,
One in ten,
For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten?

Heroic Stanzas

© John Dryden

Consecrated to the Glorious Memory of His
Most Serene and Renowned Highness, Oliver,
Late Lord Protector of This Commonwealth, etc.
(Oliver Cromwell)

Alexander's Feast; Or, The Power Of Music

© John Dryden

Now strike the golden lyre again:
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder

Song From An Evening's Love

© John Dryden

After the pangs of a desperate lover,
When day and night I have sighed all in vain,
Ah, what a pleasure it is to discover
In her eyes pity, who causes my pain!