Written by
William Cullen Bryant |
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,---ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs,
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn---thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in His ear.
Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,
These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here---thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summit of these trees
In music; thou art in the cooler breath
That from the inmost darkness of the place
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship;---Nature, here,
In the tranquility that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak---
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
Almost annihilated---not a prince,
In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
E'er wore his crown as lofty as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.
My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me---the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever. Written on thy works I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die---but see again,
How on the faltering footsteps of decay
Youth presses----ever gay and beautiful youth
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death---yea, seats himself
Upon the tyrant's throne---the sepulchre,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
There have been holy men who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them;---and there have been holy men
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and in thy presence reassure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink
And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou
Dost scare the world with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
And drowns the village; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities---who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of the works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
|
Written by
William Cullen Bryant |
THE GROVES were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft and lay the architrave
And spread the roof above them¡ªere he framed
The lofty vault to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood 5
Amidst the cool and silence he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences
Which from the stilly twilight of the place 10
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops stole over him and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power 15
And inaccessible majesty. Ah why
Should we in the world's riper years neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries and adore
Only among the crowd and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised? Let me at least 20
Here in the shadow of this aged wood
Offer one hymn¡ªthrice happy if it find
Acceptance in His ear.
Father thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns thou 25
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth and forthwith rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun
Budded and shook their green leaves in thy breeze
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow 30
Whose birth was in their tops grew old and died
Among their branches till at last they stood
As now they stand massy and tall and dark
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults 35
These winding aisles of human pomp or pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here¡ªthou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 40
That run along the summit of these trees
In music; thou art in the cooler breath
That from the inmost darkness of the place
Comes scarcely felt; the barky trunks the ground
The fresh moist ground are all instinct with thee. 45
Here is continual worship;¡ªNature here
In the tranquillity that thou dost love
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around
From perch to perch the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring that midst its herbs 50
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots
Of half the mighty forest tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness in these shades
Of thy perfections. Grandeur strength and grace 55
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak ¡ª
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
Almost annihilated¡ªnot a prince
In all that proud old world beyond the deep
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 60
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower
With scented breath and look so like a smile 65
Seems as it issues from the shapeless mould
An emanation of the indwelling Life
A visible token of the upholding Love
That are the soul of this great universe.
My heart is awed within me when I think 70
Of the great miracle that still goes on
In silence round me¡ªthe perpetual work
Of thy creation finished yet renewed
Forever. Written on thy works I read
The lesson of thy own eternity. 75
Lo! all grow old and die¡ªbut see again
How on the faltering footsteps of decay
Youth presses ¡ªever-gay and beautiful youth
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 80
Moulder beneath them. O there is not lost
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet
After the flight of untold centuries
The freshness of her far beginning lies
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 85
Of his arch-enemy Death¡ªyea seats himself
Upon the tyrant's throne¡ªthe sepulchre
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From thine own bosom and shall have no end. 90
There have been holy men who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer till they outlived
The generation born with them nor seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 95
Around them;¡ªand there have been holy men
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire and in thy presence reassure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies 100
The passions at thy plainer footsteps shrink
And tremble and are still. O God! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts or fill
With all the waters of the firmament 105
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
And drowns the villages; when at thy call
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent and overwhelms
Its cities¡ªwho forgets not at the sight 110
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power
His pride and lays his strifes and follies by?
O from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchain¨¨d elements to teach 115
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate
In these calm shades thy milder majesty
And to the beautiful order of thy works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood
An’ did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An’ did nae less, in full congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie’s Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca’, man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa’, man,
Wi’ sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en’mies a’, man.
Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
Was kept at Boston-ha’, man;
Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man;
Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork,
Sir-Loin he hacked sma’, man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa’, man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought,
An’ did the Buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa’, man.
Then Montague, an’ Guilford too,
Began to fear, a fa’, man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a’, man;
An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca’, man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an’ Fox united stocks,
An’ bore him to the wa’, man.
Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes,
He swept the stakes awa’, man,
Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads,
On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man;
An’ Scotland drew her pipe an’ blew,
“Up, Willie, waur them a’, man!”
Behind the throne then Granville’s gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous’d the class
Be-north the Roman wa’, man:
An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heav’nly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi’ kindling eyes, cry’d, “Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear’d them a’, man?”
But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man;
Till Suthron raise, an’ coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man:
An’ Caledon threw by the drone,
An’ did her whittle draw, man;
An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ bluid,
To mak it guid in law, man.
|
Written by
Herman Melville |
"Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him"
Shall hearts that beat no base retreat
In youth's magnanimous years -
Ignoble hold it, if discreet
When interest tames to fears;
Shall spirits that worship light
Perfidious deem its sacred glow,
Recant, and trudge where worldlings go,
Conform and own them right?
Shall Time with creeping influence cold
Unnerve and cow? The heart
Pine for the heartless ones enrolled
With palterers of the mart?
Shall faith abjure her skies,
Or pale probation blench her down
To shrink from Truth so still, so lone
Mid loud gregarious lies?
Each burning boat in Caesar's rear,
Flames -No return through me!
So put the torch to ties though dear,
If ties but tempters be.
Nor cringe if come the night:
Walk through the cloud to meet the pall,
Though light forsake thee, never fall
From fealty to light.
|
Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
If you live along with all the other people
and are just like them, and conform, and are nice
you're just a worm --
and if you live with all the other people
and you don't like them and won't be like them and won't conform
then you're just the worm that has turned,
in either case, a worm.
The conforming worm stays just inside the skin
respectably unseen, and cheerfully gnaws away at the heart of life,
making it all rotten inside.
The unconforming worm -- that is, the worm that has turned --
gnaws just the same, gnawing the substance out of life,
but he insists on gnawing a little hole in the social epidermis
and poking his head out and waving himself
and saying: Look at me, I am not respectable,
I do all the things the bourgeois daren't do,
I booze and fornicate and use foul language and despise your honest man.--
But why should the worm that has turned protest so much?
The bonnie bonnie bourgeois goes a-whoring up back streets just the same.
The busy busy bourgeois imbibes his little share
just the same
if not more.
The pretty pretty bourgeois pinks his language just as pink
if not pinker,
and in private boasts his exploits even louder, if you ask me,
than the other.
While as to honesty, Oh look where the money lies!
So I can't see where the worm that has turned puts anything over
the worm that is too cunning to turn.
On the contrary, he merely gives himself away.
The turned worm shouts. I bravely booze!
the other says. Have one with me!
The turned worm boasts: I copulate!
the unturned says: You look it.
You're a d----- b----- b----- p----- bb-----, says the worm that's turned.
Quite! says the other. Cuckoo!
|
Written by
Rudyard Kipling |
1917
They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?
They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slain
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?
Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide--
Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?
Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?
Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,
Even while they make a show of fear,
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their
friends,
To conform and re-establish each career?
Their lives cannot repay us--their death could not undo--
The shame that they have laid upon our race.
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
Shell we leave it unabated in its place?
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
My Worthiness is all my Doubt --
His Merit -- all my fear --
Contrasting which, my quality
Do lowlier -- appear --
Lest I should insufficient prove
For His beloved Need --
The Chiefest Apprehension
Upon my thronging Mind --
'Tis true -- that Deity to stoop
Inherently incline --
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon --
So I -- the undivine abode
Of His Elect Content --
Conform my Soul -- as 'twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament --
|
Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
My world is a painted fresco, where coloured shapes
Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm;
An endless tapestry the past has women drapes
The halls of my life, compelling my soul to conform.
The surface of dreams is broken,
The picture of the past is shaken and scattered.
Fluent, active figures of men pass along the railway, and I am woken
From the dreams that the distance flattered.
Along the railway, active figures of men.
They have a secret that stirs in their limbs as they move
Out of the distance, nearer, commanding my dreamy world.
Here in the subtle, rounded flesh
Beats the active ecstasy.
In the sudden lifting my eyes, it is clearer,
The fascination of the quick, restless Creator moving through the mesh
Of men, vibrating in ecstasy through the rounded flesh.
Oh my boys, bending over your books,
In you is trembling and fusing
The creation of a new-patterned dream, dream of a generation:
And I watch to see the Creator, the power that patterns the dream.
The old dreams are beautiful, beloved, soft-toned, and sure,
But the dream-stuff is molten and moving mysteriously,
Alluring my eyes; for I, am I not also dream-stuff,
Am I not quickening, diffusing myself in the pattern, shaping and shapen?
Here in my class is the answer for the great yearning:
Eyes where I can watch the swim of old dreams reflected on the molten metal of dreams,
Watch the stir which is rhythmic and moves them all as a heart-beat moves the blood,
Here in the swelling flesh the great activity working,
Visible there in the change of eyes and the mobile features.
Oh the great mystery and fascination of the unseen Shaper,
The power of the melting, fusing Force—heat, light, all in one,
Everything great and mysterious in one, swelling and shaping the dream in the flesh,
As it swells and shapes a bud into blossom.
Oh the terrible ecstasy of the consciousness that I am life!
Oh the miracle of the whole, the widespread, labouring concentration
Swelling mankind like one bud to bring forth the fruit of a dream,
Oh the terror of lifting the innermost I out of the sweep of the impulse of life,
And watching the great Thing labouring through the whole round flesh of the world;
And striving to catch a glimpse of the shape of the coming dream,
As it quickens within the labouring, white-hot metal,
Catch the scent and the colour of the coming dream,
Then to fall back exhausted into the unconscious, molten life!
|
Written by
William Cowper |
(Judges, vi.25)
Jesus! whose blood so freely stream'd
To satisfy the law's demand;
By Thee from guilt and wrath redeem'd,
Before the Father's face I stand.
To reconcile offending man,
Make Justice drop her angry rod;
What creature could have form'd the plan,
Or who fulfil it but a God?
No drop remains of all the curse,
For wretches who deserved the whole;
No arrows dipt in wrath to pierce
The guilty, but returning soul.
Peace by such means so dearly bought,
What rebel could have hoped to see?
Peace by his injured Sovereign wrought,
His Sovereign fasten'd to a tree.
Now, Lord, Thy feeble worm prepare!
For strife with earth and hell begins;
Conform and gird me for the war;
They hate the soul that hates his sins.
Let them in horrid league agree!
They may assault, they may distress;
But cannot quench Thy love to me,
Nor rob me of the Lord my peace.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 293] SONNET LXIII. Tornami a mente, anzi v' è dentro quella. SHE IS SO FIXED IN HIS HEART THAT AT TIMES HE BELIEVES HER STILL ALIVE, AND IS FORCED TO RECALL THE DATE OF HER DEATH. Oh! to my soul for ever she returns;Or rather Lethe could not blot her thence,Such as she was when first she struck my sense,In that bright blushing age when beauty burns:So still I see her, bashful as she turnsRetired into herself, as from offence:I cry—"'Tis she! she still has life and sense:Oh, speak to me, my love!"—Sometimes she spurnsMy call; sometimes she seems to answer straight:Then, starting from my waking dream, I say,—"Alas! poor wretch, thou art of mind bereft!Forget'st thou the first hour of the sixth dayOf April, the three hundred, forty eight,And thousandth year,—when she her earthly mansion left?" Morehead. My mind recalls her; nay, her home is there,Nor can Lethean draught drive thence her form,I see that star's pure ray her spirit warm,Whose grace and spring-time beauty she doth wear.As thus my vision paints her charms so rare,That none to such perfection may conform,I cry, "'Tis she! death doth to life transform!"And then to hear that voice, I wake my prayer.She now replies, and now doth mute appear,Like one whose tottering mind regains its power;I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign;The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year,The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour,Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!" Wollaston.
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