Men poems

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Mazeppa

© Lord Byron

'Twas after dread Pultowa's day,
When fortune left the royal Swede -
Around a slaughtered army lay,
No more to combat and to bleed.

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The Siege of Corinth

© Lord Byron

Still the old man stood erect,
And Alp's career a moment check'd.
"Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take,
For thine own, thy daughter's sake."

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Bride of Abydos, The

© Lord Byron

"Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." — Burns

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The Bride of Abydos

© Lord Byron

"Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." — Burns

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The Vision of Judgment

© Lord Byron

BY
QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS
SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF 'WAT TYLER' 'A Daniel come to judgment! yes a Daniel!
I thank thee, Jew for teaching me that word.' PREFACE It hath been wisely said, that 'One fool makes many;' and it hath been poetically observed —'That fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' - Pope If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where he never was before, and never will be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance, and impious cant, of the poem by the author if 'Wat Tyler,' are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself — containing the quintessence of his own attributes. So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed 'Satanic School,' the which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature; thereby adding to his other laurels, the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere, except in his imagination, such a School, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have 'talked of him; for they have laughed consumedly.' I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capacities, have done more good, in the charities of life, to their fellow-creatures, in any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask. 1stly, Is Mr. Southey the author of 'Wat Tyler'? 2ndly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a blasphemous and seditious publication? 3rdly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Parliament, 'a rancorous renegado'? 4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines on Martin the regicide staring him in the face? And 5thly, Putting the four preceding items together, with what conscience dare he call the attention of the laws to the publications of others, be they what they may? I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding, its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publications, as he was of yore in the 'Anti-jacobin,' by his present patrons. Hence all this 'skimble-scamble stuff' about 'Satanic,' and so forth. However, it is worthy of him — 'qualis ab incepto.' If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of the public in the following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameters, as he has written everything else, for aught that the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. But to attempt to canonise a monarch, who, whatever where his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France, — like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in this new 'Vision,' his public career will not be more favourably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expense to the nation) there can be no doubt. With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present. QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS P.S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in these objectionable times, to the freedom with which saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 'Vision.' But, for precedents upon such points, I must refer him to Fielding's 'Journey from the World to the next,' and to the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or discussed; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more than can be said for the Laureate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not 'like a school-divine,' but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of heaven; and Chaucer's 'Wife of Bath,' Pulci's 'Morgante Maggiore,' Swift's 'Tale of a Tub,' and the other

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Lara

© Lord Byron

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew.
"The last alternative befits me best,
And thus I answer for mine absent guest."

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Prometheus

© Lord Byron

Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;

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Virtue is Its Own Reward

© Harry Graham

Virtue its own reward? Alas!
  And what a poor one as a rule!
Be Virtuous and Life will pass
  Like one long term of Sunday-School.
(No prospect, truly, could one find
More unalluring to the mind.)

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Pro Rege Nostro

© William Ernest Henley

WHAT have I done for you,

  England, my England?

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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Poet's Tale; Lady Wentworth

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt.
A widower and childless; and he felt
The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom,
That like a presence haunted every room;
For though not given to weakness, he could feel
The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal.

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L'amour Et La Mort

© Louise-Victorine Choquet Ackermann

Regardez-les passer, ces couples éphémères !
Dans les bras l'un de l'autre enlacés un moment,
Tous, avant de mêler à jamais leurs poussières,
Font le même serment :

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A Bronte Legend

© Lesbia Harford

They say she was a creature of the moor,
A lover of the angels, silence bound.
She sought no friendships. She was too remote,
Her sister Charlotte found.

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All Day It Has Rained

© Alun Lewis

  As of ourselves or those whom we
  For years have loved, and will again
  Tomorrow maybe love; but now it is the rain
  Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain.

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The Testament Of Cressida

© Robert Henryson

  Ane doolie sessoun to ane cairful dyte

  Suld correspond, and be equivalent.

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On The Eating Of Mice

© Russell Edson

Twenty years of this: curried mouse, garlic and butter
mouse, mouse sauteed in its own fur, Salisbury mouse,
mouse-in-the-trap, baked in the very trap that killed it,
mouse tartare, mouse poached in menstrual blood at the full
of the moon . . .

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Like This

© Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

  If anyone asks you
  how the perfect satisfaction
  of all our sexual wanting
  will look, lift your face
  and say,

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The Sad Message

© Russell Edson

The Captain becomes moody at sea. He's
afraid of water; such bully amounts that prove the
seas. . .

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New

© Gertrude Stein

We knew.

  Anne to come.

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Den XXIII. Salme kan kaldes den gode Hyrde

© Anders Arrebo

Her kontrafejer David dig  

din Hyrde Jesum god og rig;  

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The Columbiad: Book X

© Joel Barlow

From that mark'd stage of man we now behold,
More rapid strides his coming paths unfold;
His continents are traced, his islands found,
His well-taught sails on all his billows bound,
His varying wants their new discoveries ply,
And seek in earth's whole range their sure supply.