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Best Famous Jane Austen Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Jane Austen poems. This is a select list of the best famous Jane Austen poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Jane Austen poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of jane austen poems.

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Written by Jane Austen |

My Dearest Frank I Wish You Joy

 My dearest Frank, I wish you joy
Of Mary's safety with a Boy,
Whose birth has given little pain
Compared with that of Mary Jane.
-- May he a growing Blessing prove, And well deserve his Parents' Love!-- Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good, Thy Name possessing with thy Blood, In him, in all his ways, may we Another Francis WIlliam see!-- Thy infant days may he inherit, THey warmth, nay insolence of spirit;-- We would not with one foult dispense To weaken the resemblance.
May he revive thy Nursery sin, Peeping as daringly within, His curley Locks but just descried, With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.
'-- Fearless of danger, braving pain, And threaten'd very oft in vain, Still may one Terror daunt his Soul, One needful engine of Controul Be found in this sublime array, A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.
So may his equal faults as Child, Produce Maturity as mild! His saucy words and fiery ways In early Childhood's pettish days, In Manhood, shew his Father's mind Like him, considerate and Kind; All Gentleness to those around, And anger only not to wound.
Then like his Father too, he must, To his own former struggles just, Feel his Deserts with honest Glow, And all his self-improvement know.
A native fault may thus give birth To the best blessing, conscious Worth.
As for ourselves we're very well; As unaffected prose will tell.
-- Cassandra's pen will paint our state, The many comforts that await Our Chawton home, how much we find Already in it, to our mind; And how convinced, that when complete It will all other Houses beat The ever have been made or mended, With rooms concise, or rooms distended.
You'll find us very snug next year, Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near, For now it often does delight us To fancy them just over-right us.

Written by Jane Austen |

Ode to Pity


Ever musing I delight to tread 
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove 
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed 
On disappointed Love.
While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush Converses with the Dove.
2 Gently brawling down the turnpike road, Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream-- The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.
Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear, The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer, And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap, Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear And quite invisible doth take a peep.

Written by Jane Austen |

This Little Bag

 This little bag I hope will prove
To be not vainly made--
For, if you should a needle want
It will afford you aid.
And as we are about to part T'will serve another end, For when you look upon the Bag You'll recollect your friend

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Written by Jane Austen |

Happy the Labrer

 Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
Andhat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows, Pays to the place the reverence he owes, Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows, Lists to the sermon in a softening doze, And rouses joyous at the welcome close.

Written by Jane Austen |

To the Memory of Mrs. Lefroy who died Dec:r 16 -- my Birthday.

 The day returns again, my natal day;
What mix'd emotions with the Thought arise!
Beloved friend, four years have pass'd away
Since thou wert snatch'd forever from our eyes.
-- The day, commemorative of my birth Bestowing Life and Light and Hope on me, Brings back the hour which was thy last on Earth.
Oh! bitter pang of torturing Memory!-- Angelic Woman! past my power to praise In Language meet, thy Talents, Temper, mind.
Thy solid Worth, they captivating Grace!-- Thou friend and ornament of Humankind!-- At Johnson's death by Hamilton t'was said, 'Seek we a substitute--Ah! vain the plan, No second best remains to Johnson dead-- None can remind us even of the Man.
' So we of thee--unequall'd in thy race Unequall'd thou, as he the first of Men.
Vainly we wearch around the vacant place, We ne'er may look upon thy like again.
Come then fond Fancy, thou indulgant Power,-- --Hope is desponding, chill, severe to thee!-- Bless thou, this little portion of an hour, Let me behold her as she used to be.
I see her here, with all her smiles benign, Her looks of eager Love, her accents sweet.
That voice and Countenance almost divine!-- Expression, Harmony, alike complete.
-- I listen--'tis not sound alone--'tis sense, 'Tis Genius, Taste and Tenderness of Soul.
'Tis genuine warmth of heart without pretence And purity of Mind that crowns the whole.
She speaks; 'tis Eloquence--that grace of Tongue So rare, so lovely!--Never misapplied By her to palliate Vice, or deck a Wrong, She speaks and reasons but on Virtue's side.
Her's is the Engergy of Soul sincere.
Her Christian Spirit ignorant to feign, Seeks but to comfort, heal, enlighten, chear, Confer a pleasure, or prevent a pain.
-- Can ought enhance such Goodness?--Yes, to me, Her partial favour from my earliest years Consummates all.
--Ah! Give me yet to see Her smile of Love.
--the Vision diappears.
'Tis past and gone--We meet no more below.
Short is the Cheat of Fancy o'er the Tomb.
Oh! might I hope to equal Bliss to go! To meet thee Angel! in thy future home!-- Fain would I feel an union in thy fate, Fain would I seek to draw an Omen fair From this connection in our Earthly date.
Indulge the harmless weakness--Reason, spare.

Written by Jane Austen |

Ive a Pain in my Head

 'I've a pain in my head' 
Said the suffering Beckford; 
To her Doctor so dread.
'Oh! what shall I take for't?' Said this Doctor so dread Whose name it was Newnham.
'For this pain in your head Ah! What can you do Ma'am?' Said Miss Beckford, 'Suppose If you think there's no risk, I take a good Dose Of calomel brisk.
'-- 'What a praise worthy Notion.
' Replied Mr.
'You shall have such a potion And so will I too Ma'am.

Written by Jane Austen |

Oh! Mr Best Youre Very Bad

 Oh! Mr.
Best, you're very bad And all the world shall know it; Your base behaviour shall be sung By me, a tunefull Poet.
-- You used to go to Harrowgate Each summer as it came, And why I pray should you refuse To go this year the same?-- The way's as plain, the road's as smooth, The Posting not increased; You're scarcely stouter than you were, Not younger Sir at least.
-- If e'er the waters were of use Why now their use forego? You may not live another year, All's mortal here below.
-- It is your duty Mr Best To give your health repair.
Vain else your Richard's pills will be, And vain your Consort's care.
But yet a nobler Duty calls You now towards the North.
Arise ennobled--as Escort Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.
She wants your aid--she honours you With a distinguished call.
Stand forth to be the friend of her Who is the friend of all.
-- Take her, and wonder at your luck, In having such a Trust.
Her converse sensible and sweet Will banish heat and dust.
-- So short she'll make the journey seem You'll bid the Chaise stand still.
T'will be like driving at full speed From Newb'ry to Speen hill.
-- Convey her safe to Morton's wife And I'll forget the past, And write some verses in your praise As finely and as fast.
But if you still refuse to go I'll never let your rest, Buy haunt you with reproachful song Oh! wicked Mr.

Written by Jane Austen |

When Winchester races

 When Winchester races first took their beginning
It is said the good people forgot their old Saint
Not applying at all for the leave of Saint Swithin
And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint.
The races however were fixed and determined The company came and the Weather was charming The Lords and the Ladies were satine'd and ermined And nobody saw any future alarming.
-- But when the old Saint was informed of these doings He made but one Spring from his Shrine to the Roof Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins And then he addressed them all standing aloof.
'Oh! subjects rebellious! Oh Venta depraved When once we are buried you think we are gone But behold me immortal! By vice you're enslaved You have sinned and must suffer, ten farther he said These races and revels and dissolute measures With which you're debasing a neighboring Plain Let them stand--You shall meet with your curse in your pleasures Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain.
Ye cannot but know my command o'er July Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry The curse upon Venta is July in showers--'.

Written by Jane Austen |

Miss Lloyd has now went to Miss Green

 Miss Lloyd has now sent to Miss Green,
As, on opening the box, may be seen,
Some years of a Black Ploughman's Gauze,
To be made up directly, because
Miss Lloyd must in mourning appear
For the death of a Relative dear--
Miss Lloyd must expect to receive
This license to mourn and to grieve,
Complete, ere the end of the week--
It is better to write than to speak

Written by Jane Austen |

See they come post haste from Thanet

 See they come, post haste from Thanet,
Lovely couple, side by side;
They've left behind them Richard Kennet
With the Parents of the Bride! 
Canterbury they have passed through;
Next succeeded Stamford-bridge;
Chilham village they came fast through;
Now they've mounted yonder ridge.
Down the hill they're swift proceeding, Now they skirt the Park around; Lo! The Cattle sweetly feeding Scamper, startled at the sound! Run, my Brothers, to the Pier gate! Throw it open, very wide! Let it not be said that we're late In welcoming my Uncle's Bride! To the house the chaise advances; Now it stops--They're here, they're here! How d'ye do, my Uncle Francis? How does do your Lady dear?

Written by Rudyard Kipling |

The Mares Nest

 Jane Austen Beecher Stowe de Rouse
 Was good beyond all earthly need;
But, on the other hand, her spouse
 Was very, very bad indeed.
He smoked cigars, called churches slow, And raced -- but this she did not know.
For Belial Machiavelli kept The little fact a secret, and, Though o'er his minor sins she wept, Jane Austen did not understand That Lilly -- thirteen-two and bay Absorbed one-half her husband's pay.
She was so good, she made hime worse; (Some women are like this, I think;) He taught her parrot how to curse, Her Assam monkey how to drink.
He vexed her righteous soul until She went up, and he went down hill.
Then came the crisis, strange to say, Which turned a good wife to a better.
A telegraphic peon, one day, Brought her -- now, had it been a letter For Belial Machiavelli, I Know Jane would just have let it lie.
But 'twas a telegram instead, Marked "urgent," and her duty plain To open it.
Jane Austen read: "Your Lilly's got a cough again.
Can't understand why she is kept At your expense.
" Jane Austen wept.
It was a misdirected wire.
Her husband was at Shaitanpore.
She spread her anger, hot as fire, Through six thin foreign sheets or more.
Sent off that letter, wrote another To her solicitor -- and mother.
Then Belial Machiavelli saw Her error and, I trust, his own, Wired to the minion of the Law, And traveled wifeward -- not alone.
For Lilly -- thirteen-two and bay -- Came in a horse-box all the way.
There was a scene -- a weep or two -- With many kisses.
Austen Jane Rode Lilly all the season through, And never opened wires again.
She races now with Belial.
This Is very sad, but so it is.

Written by Jane Austen |

Of A Ministry Pitiful Angry Mean

 Of a Ministry pitiful, angry, mean,
A gallant commander the victim is seen.
For promptitude, vigour, success, does he stand Condemn'd to receive a severe reprimand! To his foes I could wish a resemblance in fate: That they, too, may suffer themselves, soon or late, The injustice they warrent.
But vain is my spite They cannot so suffer who never do right.

Written by Erica Jong |

Dear Colette

 Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.
I want to tell you how your face enduring after thirty, forty, fifty.
hangs above my desk like my own muse.
I want to tell you how your hands reach out from your books & seize my heart.
I want to tell you how your hair electrifies my thoughts like my own halo.
I want to tell you how your eyes penetrate my fear & make it melt.
I want to tell you simply that I love you-- though you are "dead" & I am still "alive.
" Suicides & spinsters-- all our kind! Even decorous Jane Austen never marrying, & Sappho leaping, & Sylvia in the oven, & Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale, & pale Virginia floating like Ophelia, & Emily alone, alone, alone.
But you endure & marry, go on writing, lose a husband, gain a husband, go on writing, sing & tap dance & you go on writing, have a child & still you go on writing, love a woman, love a man & go on writing.
You endure your writing & your life.
Dear Colette, I only want to thank you: for your eyes ringed with bluest paint like bruises, for your hair gathering sparks like brush fire, for your hands which never willingly let go, for your years, your child, your lovers, all your books.
Dear Colette, you hold me to this life.

Written by Jane Austen |

When Stretchd on Ones Bed

 When stretch'd on one's bed 
With a fierce-throbbing head, 
Which preculdes alike thought or repose, 
How little one cares 
For the grandest affairs 
That may busy the world as it goes!

How little one feels 
For the waltzes and reels 
Of our Dance-loving friends at a Ball! 
How slight one's concern 
To conjecture or learn 
What their flounces or hearts may befall.
How little one minds If a company dines On the best that the Season affords! How short is one's muse O'er the Sauces and Stews, Or the Guests, be they Beggars or Lords.
How little the Bells, Ring they Peels, toll they Knells, Can attract our attention or Ears! The Bride may be married, The Corse may be carried And touch nor our hopes nor our fears.
Our own bodily pains Ev'ry faculty chains; We can feel on no subject besides.
Tis in health and in ease We the power must seize For our friends and our souls to provide.

Written by Jane Austen |

Mock Panegyric on a Young Friend

 In measured verse I'll now rehearse 
The charms of lovely Anna: 
And, first, her mind is unconfined 
Like any vast savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak Her fancy's ample bound: Its circuit may, on strict survey Five hundred miles be found.
Her wit descends on foes and friends Like famed Niagara's fall; And travellers gaze in wild amaze, And listen, one and all.
Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound, Like transatlantic groves, Dispenses aid, and friendly shade To all that in it roves.
If thus her mind to be defined America exhausts, And all that's grand in that great land In similes it costs -- Oh how can I her person try To image and portray? How paint the face, the form how trace, In which those virtues lay? Another world must be unfurled, Another language known, Ere tongue or sound can publish round Her charms of flesh and bone.