Written by
Tanwir Phool |
http://forum.urdujahaan.com/viewtopic.php?f=96&t=4192
O my native land !
O my native land !
Far better than a garden
Is your dust and sand
What a dignified place you are !
Full of grace and beauty , as star
You are protected and saved , indeed
By the Mercy of God , near not far
O my native land !
O my native land !
Far better than a garden
Is your dust and sand
Ever-flowing rivers and valleys
Charming scene of butterflies and bees
So much soothing is your environment
Like a paradise , full of ease
O my native land !
O my native land !
Far better than a garden
Is your dust and sand
Phool , the poet is praying always
God bless you during nights and days
Long live up to the Doomsday
With the joyful refulgence and rays
O my native land !
O my native land !
Far better than a garden
Is your dust and sand
Poet : Tanwir Phool (from his book "Naghmat-e-Pakistan" i:e
"The Melodies of Pakistan").This book has won Presidential
Award from the Government of Pakistan.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXXVIII. Grazie ch' a pochi 'l ciel largo destina. THE ENCHANTMENTS THAT ENTHRALL HIM Graces, that liberal Heaven on few bestows;Rare excellence, scarce known to human kind;With youth's bright locks age's ripe judgment join'd;Celestial charms, which a meek mortal shows;An elegance unmatch'd; and lips, whence flowsMusic that can the sense in fetters bind;A goddess step; a lovely ardent mind,That breaks the stubborn, and the haughty bows;Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies the heart,To glooms, to shades that can a light impart,Lift high the lover's soul, or plunge it low;Speech link'd by tenderness and dignity;With many a sweetly-interrupted sigh;Such are the witcheries that transform me so. Nott. [Pg 193] Graces which liberal Heaven grants few to share:Rare virtue seldom witness'd by mankind;Experienced judgment with fair hair combined;High heavenly beauty in a humble fair;A gracefulness most excellent and rare;A voice whose music sinks into the mind;An angel gait; wit glowing and refined,The hard to break, the high and haughty tear,And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone,Strong to enlighten hell and night, and takeSouls from our bodies and their own to make;A speech where genius high yet gentle shone,Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs—Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise. Macgregor.
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Written by
Mary Darby Robinson |
TELL ME, LOVE, when I rove o'er some far distant plain,
Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my breast?
Or will ABSENCE subdue the keen rigours of pain,
And the swift wing of TIME bring the balsam of rest?
Shall the image of HIM I was born to adore,
Inshrin'd in my bosom my idol still prove?
Or seduced by caprice shall fine feeling no more,
With the incense of TRUTH gem the altar of LOVE?
When I view the deep tint of the dew-dropping Rose,
Where the bee sits enamour'd its nectar to sip;
Then, ah say, will not memory fondly disclose
The softer vermilion that glow'd on HIS lip?
Will the SUN when he rolls in his chariot of fire,
So dazzle my mind with the glare of his rays,
That my senses one moment shall cease to admire
The more perfect refulgence that beam'd in HIS lays?
When the shadows of twilight steal over the plain,
And the NIGHTINGALE pours its lorn plaint in the grove,
Ah! will not the fondness that thrills thro' the strain,
Then recall to my mind HIS dear accents of Love!
When I gaze on the STARS that bespangle the sky,
Ah! will not their mildness some pity inspire;
Like the soul-touching softness that beam'd in HIS eye,
When the tear of REGRET chill'd the flame of DESIRE?
Then spare, thou dear Urchin, thou soother of pain,
Oh! spare the sweet PICTURE engrav'd on my heart;
As a record of LOVE let it ever remain;
My bosom thy tablet thy pencil A DART.
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