Hope poems
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Dirge: Written November 1808
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Pure spirit! O where art thou now! O whisper to my soul!O let some soothing thought of thee, The bitter grief control!
A Sestina of Memories
© Ball J. E.
When you were nine, and I was six years old,Do you remember how we wandered forth,Two small explorers, through the summer fields,With apple turnovers provisioned well,And trampled down the farmer's mowing grass,In haste to pluck the little red-stemmed rose?
And how the farmer in his fury roseWith hot red face, as ogres wore of old,And eyeing angrily his battered grass,With wingèd words he drove the culprits forth,And swore a whipping would be theirs as wellThe next time they profaned his sacred fields?
Regretfully we left those sunny fields(For there alone it grew, our longed-for rose),And sate us down beside a little wellThat bubbled up 'midst stonework grey and old,And watched the slow soft runlets spouting forth,To lose themselves amidst the spongy grass
The Ballad which Anne Askew made and sang when she was in Newgate
© Askew Anne
Like as the armed knightAppointed to the field,With this world will I fightAnd Faith shall be my shield.
Stay with Me, God
© Anonymous
Stay with me, God. The night is dark,The night is cold: my little sparkOf courage dies. The night is long;Be with me, God, and make me strong.
The Red River Valley
© Anonymous
From this valley they say you are going,We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile,For they say you are taking the sunshineThat brightens our pathway awhile.
God Save The King
© Anonymous
God save great George our king Long live our noble king, God save the king.Send him victorious,Happy and glorious,Long to reign over us, God save the king.
The Fight at Montgomery's
© Anonymous
They have met -- that small band, resolved to be free,As the fierce winds of Heaven that course over the sea --They have met, in bright hope, with no presage of fear,Tho' the bugle and drum of the foeman they hear:Some seize the dread rifle, some wield the tall pike,For God and their country -- for Freedom they strike,No proud ensign of glory bespeaks their renown,Yet the scorn of defiance now darkens their frown
Mosquitoes
© Anderson Robert Thompson
My eyes in slumber tightly close, Most welcome is the night's repose; No troubled thoughts my sleep condemn; And yet I hear the hum of 'M-- Mosquitoes.
Ode to the Country Gentlemen of England
© Mark Akenside
Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the while Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms, Yet vain of freedom, how dost thou beguile, With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms? Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd, The praise and envy of the nations round, What care hast thou to guard from fortune's sway? Amid the storms of war, how soon may all The lofty pile from its foundations fall,Of ages the proud toil, the ruin of a day!
No: thou art rich, thy streams and fertile vales Add industry's wise gifts to nature's store: And every port is crowded with thy sails, And every wave throws treasure on thy shore
The Campaign
© Joseph Addison
While crowds of princes your deserts proclaim,Proud in their number to enroll your name;While emperors to you commit their cause,And Anna's praises crown the vast applause,Accept, great leader, what the muse indites,That in ambitious verse records your fights,Fir'd and transported with a theme so new:Ten thousand wonders op'ning to my viewShine forth at once, sieges and storms appear,And wars and conquests fill th' important year,Rivers of blood I see, and hills of slain;An Iliad rising out of one campaign
An Account of the Greatest English Poets (complete)
© Joseph Addison
Since, dearest Harry, you will needs requestA short account of all the muse possess'd;That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times,Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes;Without more preface, wrote in formal length,To speak the undertaker's want of strength,I'll try to make their sev'ral beauties known,And show their verses' worth, though not my own
The Wants of Man
© Adams John Quincy
Man wants but little here below,Nor wants that little long. -- Goldsmith's Hermit
Glory To God Alone
© William Cowper
Oh loved! but not enough--though dearer far
Than self and its most loved enjoyments are;
None duly loves thee, but who, nobly free
From sensual objects, finds his all in thee.
The Burning Of The Leaves
© Robert Laurence Binyon
The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust;
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! The reddest rose is a ghost;
Sparks whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.
Blessens A-Left
© William Barnes
Lik' souls a-toss'd at sea I bore
Sad strokes o' trial, shock by shock,
