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Best Famous Portend Poems

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Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet to the Nightingale

 O nightingale that on yon blooming spray 
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 
Thou with fresh hopes the Lover’s heart dost fill, 
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. 
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill, 
Portend success in love. O if Jove’s will 
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, 
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
For my relief, yet had’st no reason why. 
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, 
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.


Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Heroic Stanzas

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

Written After the Celebration of his Funeral 


1

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste, 
Who would before have borne him to the sky, 
Like eager Romans ere all rites were past 
Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly. 

2

Though our best notes are treason to his fame 
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice; 
Since Heav'n, what praise we offer to his name, 
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice; 

3

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, 
Since they whose Muses have the highest flown 
Add not to his immortal memory, 
But do an act of friendship to their own; 

4

Yet 'tis our duty and our interest too 
Such monuments as we can build to raise, 
Lest all the world prevent what we should do 
And claim a title in him by their praise. 

5

How shall I then begin, or where conclude 
To draw a fame so truly circular? 
For in a round what order can be shew'd, 
Where all the parts so equal perfect are? 

6

His grandeur he deriv'd from Heav'n alone, 
For he was great ere fortune made him so, 
And wars like mists that rise against the sun 
Made him but greater seem, not greater grown. 

7

No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn, 
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring. 
Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born 
With the too early thoughts of being king. 

8

Fortune (that easy mistress of the young 
But to her ancient servant coy and hard) 
Him at that age her favorites rank'd among 
When she her best-lov'd Pompey did discard. 

9

He, private, mark'd the faults of others' sway, 
And set as sea-marks for himself to shun, 
Not like rash monarchs who their youth betray 
By acts their age too late would wish undone. 

10

And yet dominion was not his design; 
We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven, 
Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join, 
Rewards that less to him than us were given. 

11

Our former chiefs like sticklers of the war 
First sought t'inflame the parties, then to poise, 
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor, 
And did not strike to hurt but make a noise. 

12

War, our consumption, was their gainfull trade; 
We inward bled whilst they prolong'd our pain; 
He fought to end our fighting and assay'd 
To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein. 

13

Swift and resistless through the land he pass'd 
Like that bold Greek who did the east subdue, 
And made to battles such heroic haste 
As if on wings of victory he flew. 

14

He fought secure of fortune as of fame, 
Till by new maps the island might be shown, 
Of conquests which he strew'd where'er he came 
Thick as a galaxy with stars is sown. 

15

His palms, though under weights they did not stand, 
Still thriv'd; no winter could his laurels fade; 
Heav'n in his portrait shew'd a workman's hand 
And drew it perfect yet without a shade. 

16

Peace was the prize of all his toils and care, 
Which war had banish'd and did now restore; 
Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air 
To seat themselves more surely than before. 

17

Her safety rescu'd Ireland to him owes, 
And treacherous Scotland, to no int'rest true, 
Yet bless'd that fate which did his arms dispose 
Her land to civilize as to subdue. 

18

Nor was he like those stars which only shine 
When to pale mariners they storms portend; 
He had his calmer influence, and his mien 
Did love and majesty together blend. 

19

'Tis true, his count'nance did imprint an awe, 
And naturally all souls to his did bow, 
As wands of divination downward draw 
And points to beds where sov'reign gold doth grow. 

20

When past all offerings to Feretrian Jove, 
He Mars depos'd and arms to gowns made yield; 
Successful councils did him soon approve 
As fit for close intrigues as open field. 

21

To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a peace, 
Our once bold rival in the British main, 
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease 
And buy our friendship with her idol, gain. 

22

Fame of th' asserted sea through Europe blown 
Made France and Spain ambitious of his love; 
Each knew that side must conquer he would own, 
And for him fiercely as for empire strove. 

23

No sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd 
Than the light monsieur the grave don outweigh'd; 
His fortune turn'd the scale where it was cast, 
Though Indian mines were in the other laid. 

24

When absent, yet we conquer'd in his right, 
For though some meaner artist's skill were shown 
In mingling colours, or in placing light, 
Yet still the fair designment was his own. 

25

For from all tempers he could service draw; 
The worth of each with its alloy he knew, 
And as the confidant of Nature saw 
How she complexions did divide and brew. 

26

Or he their single virtues did survey 
By intuition in his own large breast, 
Where all the rich ideas of them lay, 
That were the rule and measure to the rest. 

27

When such heroic virtue Heav'n sets out, 
The stars like Commons sullenly obey, 
Because it drains them when it comes about, 
And therefore is a tax they seldom pay. 

28

From this high spring our foreign conquests flow, 
Which yet more glorious triumphs do portend, 
Since their commencement to his arms they owe, 
If springs as high as fountains may ascend. 

29

He made us freemen of the continent 
Whom Nature did like captives treat before, 
To nobler preys the English lion sent, 
And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar. 

30

That old unquestion'd pirate of the land, 
Proud Rome, with dread the fate of Dunkirk heard, 
And trembling wish'd behind more Alps to stand, 
Although an Alexander were here guard. 

31

By his command we boldly cross'd the line 
And bravely fought where southern stars arise, 
We trac'd the far-fetch'd gold unto the mine 
And that which brib'd our fathers made our prize. 

32

Such was our prince; yet own'd a soul above 
The highest acts it could produce to show: 
Thus poor mechanic arts in public move 
Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go. 

33

Nor di'd he when his ebbing fame went less, 
But when fresh laurels courted him to live; 
He seem'd but to prevent some new success, 
As if above what triumphs earth could give. 

34

His latest victories still thickest came, 
As near the center motion does increase, 
Till he, press'd down by his own weighty name, 
Did, like the vestal, under spoils decrease. 

35

But first the ocean as a tribute sent 
That giant prince of all her watery herd, 
And th' isle when her protecting genius went 
Upon his obsequies loud sighs conferr'd. 

36

No civil broils have since his death arose, 
But faction now by habit does obey, 
And wars have that respect for his repose, 
As winds for halycons when they breed at sea. 

37

His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest; 
His name a great example stands to show 
How strangely high endeavours may be blest, 
Where piety and valour jointly go.
Written by Phillis Wheatley | Create an image from this poem

Niobe in Distress

 Apollo's wrath to man the dreadful spring
Of ills innum'rous, tuneful goddess, sing!
Thou who did'st first th' ideal pencil give,
And taught'st the painter in his works to live,
Inspire with glowing energy of thought,
What Wilson painted, and what Ovid wrote.
Muse! lend thy aid, nor let me sue in vain,
Tho' last and meanest of the rhyming train!
O guide my pen in lofty strains to show
The Phrygian queen, all beautiful in woe.
'Twas where Maeonia spreads her wide domain
Niobe dwelt, and held her potent reign:
See in her hand the regal sceptre shine,
The wealthy heir of Tantalus divine,
He most distinguish'd by Dodonean Jove,
To approach the tables of the gods above:
Her grandsire Atlas, who with mighty pains
Th' ethereal axis on his neck sustains:
Her other grandsire on the throne on high
Rolls the loud-pealing thunder thro' the sky.

Her spouse, Amphion, who from Jove too springs,
Divinely taught to sweep the sounding strings.

Seven sprightly sons the royal bed adorn,
Seven daughters beauteous as the op'ning morn,
As when Aurora fills the ravish'd sight,
And decks the orient realms with rosy light
From their bright eyes the living splendors play,
Nor can beholders bear the flashing ray.

Wherever, Niobe, thou turn'st thine eyes,
New beauties kindle, and new joys arise!
But thou had'st far the happier mother prov'd,
If this fair offspring had been less belov'd:
What if their charms exceed Aurora's teint.
No words could tell them, and no pencil paint,
Thy love too vehement hastens to destroy
Each blooming maid, and each celestial boy.

Now Manto comes, endu'd with mighty skill,
The past to explore, the future to reveal.
Thro' Thebes' wide streets Tiresia's daughter came,
Divine Latona's mandate to proclaim:
The Theban maids to hear the orders ran,
When thus Maeonia's prophetess began:

"Go, Thebans! great Latona's will obey,
"And pious tribute at her altars pay:
"With rights divine, the goddess be implor'd,
"Nor be her sacred offspring unador'd."
Thus Manto spoke. The Theban maids obey,
And pious tribute to the goddess pay.
The rich perfumes ascend in waving spires,
And altars blaze with consecrated fires;
The fair assembly moves with graceful air,
And leaves of laurel bind the flowing hair.

Niobe comes with all her royal race,
With charms unnumber'd, and superior grace:
Her Phrygian garments of delightful hue,
Inwove with gold, refulgent to the view,
Beyond description beautiful she moves
Like heav'nly Venus, 'midst her smiles and loves:
She views around the supplicating train,
And shakes her graceful head with stern disdain,
Proudly she turns around her lofty eyes,
And thus reviles celestial deities:
"What madness drives the Theban ladies fair
"To give their incense to surrounding air?
"Say why this new sprung deity preferr'd?
"Why vainly fancy your petitions heard?
"Or say why Cæus offspring is obey'd,
"While to my goddesship no tribute's paid?
"For me no altars blaze with living fires,
"No bullock bleeds, no frankincense transpires,
"Tho' Cadmus' palace, not unknown to fame,
"And Phrygian nations all revere my name.
"Where'er I turn my eyes vast wealth I find,
"Lo! here an empress with a goddess join'd.
"What, shall a Titaness be deify'd,
"To whom the spacious earth a couch deny'd!
"Nor heav'n, nor earth, nor sea receiv'd your queen,
"Till pitying Delos took the wand'rer in.
"Round me what a large progeny is spread!
"No frowns of fortune has my soul to dread.
"What if indignant she decrease my train
"More than Latona's number will remain;
"Then hence, ye Theban dames, hence haste away,
"Nor longer off'rings to Latona pay;
"Regard the orders of Amphion's spouse,
"And take the leaves of laurel from your brows."
Niobe spoke. The Theban maids obey'd,
Their brows unbound, and left the rights unpaid.

The angry goddess heard, then silence broke
On Cynthus' summit, and indignant spoke;
"Phoebus! behold, thy mother in disgrace,
"Who to no goddess yields the prior place
"Except to Juno's self, who reigns above,
"The spouse and sister of the thund'ring Jove.
"Niobe, sprung from Tantalus, inspires
"Each Theban bosom with rebellious fires;
"No reason her imperious temper quells,
"But all her father in her tongue rebels;
"Wrap her own sons for her blaspheming breath,
"Apollo! wrap them in the shades of death."
Latona ceas'd, and ardent thus replies
The God, whose glory decks th' expanded skies.

"Cease thy complaints, mine be the task assign'd
"To punish pride, and scourge the rebel mind."
This Phoebe join'd.--They wing their instant flight;
Thebes trembled as th' immortal pow'rs alight.

With clouds incompass'd glorious Phoebus stands;
The feather'd vengeance quiv'ring in his hands.

Near Cadmus' walls a plain extended lay,
Where Thebes' young princes pass'd in sport the day:
There the bold coursers bounded o'er the plains,
While their great masters held the golden reins.
Ismenus first the racing pastime led,
And rul'd the fury of his flying steed.
"Ah me," he sudden cries, with shrieking breath,
While in his breast he feels the shaft of death;
He drops the bridle on his courser's mane,
Before his eyes in shadows swims the plain,
He, the first-born of great Amphion's bed,
Was struck the first, first mingled with the dead.

Then didst thou, Sipylus, the language hear
Of fate portentous whistling in the air:
As when th' impending storm the sailor sees
He spreads his canvas to the fav'ring breeze,
So to thine horse thou gav'st the golden reins,
Gav'st him to rush impetuous o'er the plains:
But ah! a fatal shaft from Phoebus' hand
Smites thro' thy neck, and sinks thee on the sand.

Two other brothers were at wrestling found,
And in their pastime claspt each other round:
A shaft that instant from Apollo's hand
Transfixt them both, and stretcht them on the sand:
Together they their cruel fate bemoan'd,
Together languish'd, and together groan'd:
Together too th' unbodied spirits fled,
And sought the gloomy mansions of the dead.
Alphenor saw, and trembling at the view,
Beat his torn breast, that chang'd its snowy hue.
He flies to raise them in a kind embrace;
A brother's fondness triumphs in his face:
Alphenor fails in this fraternal deed,
A dart dispatch'd him (so the fates decreed 
Soon as the arrow left the deadly wound,
His issuing entrails smoak'd upon the ground.
What woes on blooming Damasichon wait!
His sighs portend his near impending fate.
Just where the well-made leg begins to be,
And the soft sinews form the supple knee,
The youth sore wounded by the Delian god
Attempts t' extract the crime-avenging rod,
But, whilst he strives the will of fate t' avert,
Divine Apollo sends a second dart;
Swift thro' his throat the feather'd mischief flies,
Bereft of sense, he drops his head, and dies.

Young Ilioneus, the last, directs his pray'r,
And cries, "My life, ye gods celestial! spare."
Apollo heard, and pity touch'd his heart,
But ah! too late, for he had sent the dart:
Thou too, O Ilioneus, art doom'd to fall,
The fates refuse that arrow to recal.

On the swift wings of ever flying Fame
To Cadmus' palace soon the tidings came:
Niobe heard, and with indignant eyes
She thus express'd her anger and surprise:
"Why is such privilege to them allow'd?
"Why thus insulted by the Delian god?
"Dwells there such mischief in the pow'rs above?
"Why sleeps the vengeance of immortal Jove?"
For now Amphion too, with grief oppress'd,
Had plung'd the deadly dagger in his breast.
Niobe now, less haughty than before,
With lofty head directs her steps no more
She, who late told her pedigree divine,
And drove the Thebans from Latona's shrine,
How strangely chang'd!--yet beautiful in woe,
She weeps, nor weeps unpity'd by the foe.
On each pale corse the wretched mother spread
Lay overwhelm'd with grief, and kiss'd her dead,
Then rais'd her arms, and thus, in accents slow,
"Be sated cruel Goddess! with my woe;
"If I've offended, let these streaming eyes,
"And let this sev'nfold funeral suffice:
"Ah! take this wretched life you deign'd to save,
"With them I too am carried to the grave.
"Rejoice triumphant, my victorious foe,
"But show the cause from whence your triumphs flow?
"Tho' I unhappy mourn these children slain,
"Yet greater numbers to my lot remain."
She ceas'd, the bow string twang'd with awful sound,
Which struck with terror all th' assembly round,
Except the queen, who stood unmov'd alone,
By her distresses more presumptuous grown.
Near the pale corses stood their sisters fair
In sable vestures and dishevell'd hair;
One, while she draws the fatal shaft away,
Faints, falls, and sickens at the light of day.
To sooth her mother, lo! another flies,
And blames the fury of inclement skies,
And, while her words a filial pity show,
Struck dumb--indignant seeks the shades below.
Now from the fatal place another flies,
Falls in her flight, and languishes, and dies.
Another on her sister drops in death;
A fifth in trembling terrors yields her breath;
While the sixth seeks some gloomy cave in vain,
Struck with the rest, and mingled with the slain.

One only daughter lives, and she the least;
The queen close clasp'd the daughter to her breast:
"Ye heav'nly pow'rs, ah spare me one," she cry'd,
"Ah! spare me one," the vocal hills reply'd:
In vain she begs, the Fates her suit deny,
In her embrace she sees her daughter die.

*"The queen of all her family bereft,
"Without or husband, son, or daughter left,
"Grew stupid at the shock. The passing air
"Made no impression on her stiff'ning hair.
"The blood forsook her face: amidst the flood
"Pour'd from her cheeks, quite fix'd her eye-balls stood.
"Her tongue, her palate both obdurate grew,
"Her curdled veins no longer motion knew;
"The use of neck, and arms, and feet was gone,
"And ev'n her bowels hard'ned into stone:
"A marble statue now the queen appears,
"But from the marble steal the silent tears."
Written by Les Murray | Create an image from this poem

A Retrospect Of Humidity

 All the air conditioners now slacken
their hummed carrier wave. Once again
we've served our three months with remissions
in the steam and dry iron of this seaboard.
In jellied glare, through the nettle-rash season
we've watched the sky's fermenting laundry
portend downpours. Some came, and steamed away,
and we were clutched back into the rancid
saline midnights of orifice weather,
to damp grittiness and wiping off the air. 

Metaphors slump irritably together in
the muggy weeks. Shark and jellyfish shallows
become suburbs where you breathe a fat towel;
babies burst like tomatoes with discomfort
in the cotton-wrapped pointing street markets;
the Lycra-bulging surf drips from non-swimmers
miles from shore, and somehow includes soil.
Skins, touching, soak each other. Skin touching
any surface wets that and itself
in a kind of mutual digestion.
Throbbing heads grow lianas of nonsense. 

It's our annual visit to the latitudes
of rice, kerosene and resignation,
an averted, temporary visit
unrelated, for most, to the attitudes
of festive northbound jets gaining height -
closer, for some few, to the memory
of ulcers scraped with a tin spoon
or sweated faces bowing before dry
where the flesh is worn inside out,
all the hunger-organs clutched in rank nylon,
by those for whom exhaustion is spirit: 

an intrusive, heart-narrowing season
at this far southern foot of the monsoon.
As the kleenex flower, the hibiscus
drops its browning wads, we forget
annually, as one forgets a sickness.
The stifling days will never come again,
not now that we've seen the first sweater
tugged down on the beauties of division
and inside the rain's millions, a risen
loaf of cat on a cool night verandah.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Three Palinodias

 I.

"Incense is hut a tribute for the gods,--
To mortals 'tis but poison."

THE smoke that from thine altar blows,

Can it the gods offend?
For I observe thou hold'st thy nose--

Pray what does this portend?
Mankind deem incense to excel

Each other earthly thing,
So he that cannot bear its smell,

No incense e'er should bring.

With unmoved face by thee at least

To dolls is homage given;
If not obstructed by the priest,

The scent mounts up to heaven.

 1827.*

II

CONFLICT OF WIT AND BEAUTY.

SIR Wit, who is so much esteem'd,

And who is worthy of all honour,
Saw Beauty his superior deem'd

By folks who loved to gaze upon her;
At this he was most sorely vex'd.

Then came Sir Breath (long known as fit

To represent the cause of wit),

Beginning, rudely, I admit,
To treat the lady with a text.
To this she hearken'd not at all,
But hasten'd to his principal:
"None are so wise, they say, as you,--
Is not the world enough for two?

If you are obstinate, good-bye!
If wise, to love me you will try,
For be assured the world can ne'er
Give birth to a more handsome pair."

 1827.*

FAIR daughters were by Beauty rear'd,

Wit had but dull sons for his lot;
So for a season it appear'd

Beauty was constant, Wit was not.
But Wit's a native of the soil,

So he return'd, work'd, strove amain,
And found--sweet guerdon for his toil!--

Beauty to quicken him again.

 1827.*

III.

RAIN AND RAINBOW.

DURING a heavy storm it chanced
That from his room a cockney glanced
At the fierce tempest as it broke,
While to his neighbour thus he spoke:
"The thunder has our awe inspired,
Our barns by lightning have been fired,--
Our sins to punish, I suppose;
But in return, to soothe our woes,
See how the rain in torrents fell,
Making the harvest promise well!
But is't a rainbow that I spy
Extending o'er the dark-grey sky?
With it I'm sure we may dispense,
The colour'd cheat! The vain pretence!"
Dame Iris straightway thus replied:
"Dost dare my beauty to deride?
In realms of space God station'd me
A type of better worlds to be
To eyes that from life's sorrows rove
In cheerful hope to Heav'n above,
And, through the mists that hover here
God and his precepts blest revere.
Do thou, then, grovel like the swine,
And to the ground thy snout confine,
But suffer the enlighten'd eye
To feast upon my majesty."

 1827.*


Written by William Cullen Bryant | Create an image from this poem

To the Fringed Gentian

 Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart.
Written by Andrew Marvell | Create an image from this poem

The Mower To The Glo-Worms

 Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light
The Nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the Summer-night,
Her matchless Songs does meditate;

Ye Country Comets, that portend
No War, nor Princes funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Then to presage the Grasses fall;

Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame
To wandring Mowers shows the way,
That in the Night have lost their aim,
And after foolish Fires do stray;

Your courteous Lights in vain you wast,
Since Juliana here is come,
For She my Mind hath so displac'd
That I shall never find my home.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet 01

 I

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray
Warbl'st at eeve, when all the Woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's bill
Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate
Foretell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny: 
As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too late
For my relief; yet hadst no reason why,
Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

To The Nightingale

 O Nightingale! that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
Written by Emile Verhaeren | Create an image from this poem

In the depth of our love dwells all faith

In the depth of our love dwells all faith; we bind up a glowing thought together with the least things: the awakening of a bud, the decline of a rose, the flight of a frail and beautiful bird that, by turns, appears or disappears in the shadow or the light.
A nest falling to pieces on the mossy edge of a roof and ravaged by the wind fills the mind with dread. An insect eating the heart of the hollyhocks terrifies: all is fear, all is hope.
Though reason with its sharp and soothing snow may suddenly cool these charming pangs, what matters! Let us accept them without inquiring overmuch into the false, the true, the evil or the good they portend;
Let us be happy that we can be as children, believing in their fatal or triumphant power, and let us guard with closed shutters against too sensible people.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry