Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Wickedness Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Wickedness poems, articles about Wickedness poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Wickedness poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

83. The Cotter's Saturday Night

 MY lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
 No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
 My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise:
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene,
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh;
 The short’ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
 The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose:
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their dead, wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun’; Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu’ bloom-love sparkling in her e’e— Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other’s weelfare kindly speirs: The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet: Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new; The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.
Their master’s and their mistress’ command, The younkers a’ are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play; “And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.
” But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleased the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin youth, he takes the mother’s eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy, But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave, Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.
O happy love! where love like this is found: O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare,— “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare— One cordial in this melancholy vale, ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other’sarms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
” Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o’er their child? Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food; The sowp their only hawkie does afford, That, ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell; And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid: The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How t’was a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.
The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha’bible, ance his father’s pride: His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And “Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise, They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise; Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame; The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire; Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head: How His first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.
Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” 1 That thus they all shall meet in future days, There, ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator’s praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art; When men display to congregations wide Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That he who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs, That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;” And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile! Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.
O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide, That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart, Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part: (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia’s realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! Note 1.
Pope’s “Windsor Forest.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Song at Cock-Crow

 The first time that Peter denied his Lord
 He shrank from the cudgel, the scourge and the cord,
But followed far off to see what they would do,
 Till the cock crew--till the cock crew--
After Gethsemane, till the cock crew!

The first time that Peter denied his Lord
 'Twas only a maid in the palace who heard,
As he sat by the fire and warmed himself through.
Then the cock crew! Then the cock crew! ("Though also art one of them.
") Then the cock crew! The first time that Peter denied his Lord He had neither the Throne, nor the Keys nor the Sword-- A poor silly fisherman, what could he do, When the cock crew--when the cock crew-- But weep for his wickedness when the cock crew? .
The next time that Peter denied his Lord He was Fisher of Men, as foretold by the Word, With the Crown on his brow and the Cross on his shoe, When the cock crew--when the cock crew-- In Flanders and Picardy when the cock crew! The next time that Peter denied his Lord 'Twas Mary the Mother in Heaven Who heard, She grieved for the maidens and wives that they slew When the cock crew--when the cock crew-- At Tirmonde and Aerschott when the cock crew! The next time that Peter denied his Lord The Babe in the Manger awakened and stirred, And He stretched out His arms for the playmates He knew-- When the cock crew--when the cock crew-- But the waters had covered them when the cock crew! The next time that Peter denied his Lord 'Twas Earth in her agony waited his word, But he sat by the fire and naught would he do, Though the cock crew--though the cock crew-- Over all Christendom, though the cock crew! The last time that Peter denied his Lord, The Father took from him the Keys and the Sword, And the Mother and Babe brake his Kingdom in two, When the cock crew--when the cock crew-- (Because of his wickedness) when the cock crew!
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Fair Elanor

 The bell struck one, and shook the silent tower;
The graves give up their dead: fair Elenor
Walk'd by the castle gate, and look?d in.
A hollow groan ran thro' the dreary vaults.
She shriek'd aloud, and sunk upon the steps, On the cold stone her pale cheeks.
Sickly smells Of death issue as from a sepulchre, And all is silent but the sighing vaults.
Chill Death withdraws his hand, and she revives; Amaz'd, she finds herself upon her feet, And, like a ghost, thro' narrow passages Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.
Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones And grinning skulls, and corruptible death Wrapp'd in his shroud; and now fancies she hears Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.
At length, no fancy but reality Distracts her.
A rushing sound, and the feet Of one that fled, approaches--Ellen stood Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.
The wretch approaches, crying: `The deed is done; Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send; It is my life--send it to Elenor:-- He's dead, and howling after me for blood! `Take this,' he cried; and thrust into her arms A wet napkin, wrapp'd about; then rush'd Past, howling: she receiv'd into her arms Pale death, and follow'd on the wings of fear.
They pass'd swift thro' the outer gate; the wretch, Howling, leap'd o'er the wall into the moat, Stifling in mud.
Fair Ellen pass'd the bridge, And heard a gloomy voice cry `Is it done?' As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over The pathless plain; as the arrows that fly By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.
She fled from fear, till at her house arriv'd.
Her maids await her; on her bed she falls, That bed of joy, where erst her lord hath press'd: `Ah, woman's fear!' she cried; `ah, curs?d duke! Ah, my dear lord! ah, wretched Elenor! `My lord was like a flower upon the brows Of lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower! O ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand, Seek'st thou that flow'r to deck thy horrid temples? `My lord was like a star in highest heav'n Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness; My lord was like the opening eyes of day When western winds creep softly o'er the flowers; `But he is darken'd; like the summer's noon Clouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down; The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves.
O Elenor, weak woman, fill'd with woe!' Thus having spoke, she rais?d up her head, And saw the bloody napkin by her side, Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold More terrifi?d, saw it unfold itself.
Her eyes were fix'd; the bloody cloth unfolds, Disclosing to her sight the murder'd head Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted With gory blood; it groan'd, and thus it spake: `O Elenor, I am thy husband's head, Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower, Was 'reft of life by the accurs?d duke! A hir?d villain turn'd my sleep to death! `O Elenor, beware the curs?d duke; O give not him thy hand, now I am dead; He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night, Hir?d a villain to bereave my life.
' She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen'd to stone; She took the gory head up in her arms; She kiss'd the pale lips; she had no tears to shed; She hugg'd it to her breast, and groan'd her last.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Peace Of Dives

 The Word came down to Dives in Torment where he lay:
"Our World is full of wickedness, My Children maim and slay,
 "And the Saint and Seer and Prophet
 "Can make no better of it
"Than to sanctify and prophesy and pray.
"Rise up, rise up, thou Dives, and take again thy gold, "And thy women and thy housen as they were to thee of old.
"It may be grace hath found thee "In the furnace where We bound thee, "And that thou shalt bring the peace My Son foretold.
" Then merrily rose Dives and leaped from out his fire, And walked abroad with diligence to do the Lord's desire; And anon the battles ceased, And the captives were released, And Earth had rest from Goshen to Gadire.
The Word came down to Satan that raged and roared alone, 'Mid rhe shouring of the peoples by the cannon overthrown (But the Prophets, Saints, and Seers Set each other by the ears, For each would claim the marvel as his own): "Rise up, rise up, thou Satan, upon the Earth to go, "And prove the Peace of Dives if it be good or no: "For all that he hath planned "We deliver to thy hand, "As thy skill shall serve, to break it or bring low.
" Then mightily rose Satan, and about the Earth he hied, And breathed on Kings in idleness and Princes drunk with pride.
But for all the wrong he breathed There was never sword unsheathed, And the fires he lighted flickered out and died.
Then terribly 'rose Satan, and darkened Earth afar, Till he came on cunning Dives where the money-changers are; And he saw men pledge their gear For the bold that buys the spear, And the helmet and the habergeon of war.
Yea, to Dives came the Persian and the Syrian and the Mede -- And their hearts were nothing altered, nor their cunning nor their greed -- And they pledged their flocks and farms For the King-compelling arms, And Dives lent according to their need.
Then Satan said to Dives: -- "Return again with me, "Who hast broken His Commandment in the day He set thee free, "Who grindest for thy greed "Man's belly-pinch and need, "And the blood of Man to filthy usury!" Then softly answered Dives where the money-changers sit: -- "My Refuge is Our Master, O My Master in the Pit.
"But behold all Earth is laid "In the Peace which I have made, "And behold I wait on thee to trouble it!" Then angrily turned Satan, and about the Seas he fled, To shake the new-sown peoples with insult, doubt, and dread; But, for all the sleight he used, There was never squadron loosed, And the brands he flung flew dying and fell dead.
But to Dives came Atlantis and the Captains of the West -- And their hates were nothing weakened nor their angers unrest -- And they pawned their utmost trade For the dry, decreeing blade; And Dives lent and took of them their best.
Then Satan said to Dives: -- "Declare thou by The Name, "The secret of thy subtlety that turneth mine to shame.
"It is knowvn through all the Hells "How my peoples mocked my spells, "And my faithless Kings denied me ere I came.
" Then answvered cunning Dives: "Do not gold and hate abide "At the heart of every Magic, yea, and senseless fear beside? "With gold and fear and hate "I have harnessed state to state, "And by hate and fear and gold their hates are tied.
"For hate men seek a weapon, for fear they seek a shield -- "Keener blades and broader targes than their frantic neighbours wield -- "For gold I arm their hands, "And for gold I buy their lands, "And for gold I sell their enemies the yield.
"Their nearest foes may purchase, or their furthest friends may lease, "One by one from Ancient Accad to the Islands of the Seas.
"And their covenants they make "For the naked iron's sake, "But I -- I trap them armoured into peace.
"The flocks that Egypt pledged me to Assyria I drave, "And Pharaoh hath the increase of the herds that Sargon gave.
"Not for Ashdod overthrown "Will the Kings destroy their own, "Or their peoples wake the strife they feign to brave.
"Is not Carchemish like Calno? For the steeds of their desire "They have sold me seven harvests that I sell to Crowning Tyre; "And the Tyrian sweeps the plains "With a thousand hired wains, "And the Cities keep the peace and -- share the hire.
"Hast thou seen the pride of Moab? For the swords about his path, "His bond is to Philistia, in half of all he hath.
"And he dare not draw the sword "Till Gaza give the word, "And he show release from Askalon and Gath.
"Wilt thou call again thy peoples, wilt thou craze anew thy Kings? "Lo! my lightnings pass before thee, and their whistling servant brings, "Ere the drowsy street hath stirred, "Every masked and midnight word, "And the nations break their fast upon these things.
"So I make a jest of Wonder, and a mock of Time and Space, "The roofless Seas an hostel, and the Earth a market-place, "Where the anxious traders know "Each is surety for his foe, "And none may thrive without his fellows' grace.
"Now this is all my subtlety and this is all my Wit, "God give thee good enlightenment.
My Master in the Pit.
"But behold all Earth is laid "In the Peace which I have made, "And behold I wait on thee to trouble it!"
Written by Robert Southey | Create an image from this poem

Inchcape Rock

 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The Ship was still as she could be; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell, The Mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok The Sun in the heaven was shining gay, All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round, And there was joyaunce in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcpe Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck, And fix’d his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape Float; Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
” The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float.
Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock, Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
” Sir ralph the Rover sail’d away, He scour’d the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plunder’d store, He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.
So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, They cannot see the sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand, So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.
” “Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.
” “Now, where we are I cannot tell, But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.
” They hear no sound, the swell is strong, Though the wind hath fallen they drift along; Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, “Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!” Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even is his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear; A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell, The Devil below was ringing his knell.

Written by Anne Bradstreet | Create an image from this poem

Meditations Divine and Moral

 A ship that bears much sail, and little ballast, is easily 
overset; and that man, whose head hath great abilities, and his 
heart little or no grace, is in danger of foundering.
The finest bread has the least bran; the purest honey, the least wax; and the sincerest Christian, the least self-love.
Sweet words are like honey; a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.
Divers children have their different natures: some are like flesh which nothing but salt will keep from putrefaction; some again like tender fruits that are best preserved with sugar.
Those parents are wise that can fit their nurture according to their nature.
Authority without wisdom is like a heavy axe without an edge, fitter to bruise than polish.
The reason why Christians are so loath to exchange this world for a better, is because they have more sense than faith: they see what they enjoy, they do but hope for that which is to come.
Dim eyes are the concomitants of old age; and short- sightedness, in those that are the eyes of a Republic, foretells a declining State.
Wickedness comes to its height by degrees.
He that dares say of a less sin, Is it not a little one? will erelong say of a greater, Tush, God regards it not.
Fire hath its force abated by water, not by wind; and anger must be allayed by cold words and not by blustering threats.
The gifts that God bestows on the sons of men, are not only abused, but most commonly employed for a clean contrary end than that which they were given for; as health, wealth, and honor, which might be so many steps to draw men to God in consideration of his bounty towards them, but have driven them the further from him, that they are ready to say, We are lords, we will come no more at thee.
If outward blessings be not as wings to help us mount upwards, they will certainly prove clogs and weights that will pull us lower downward.
Written by Donald Hall | Create an image from this poem

The Alligator Bride

 The clock of my days winds down.
The cat eats sparrows outside my window.
Once, she brought me a small rabbit which we devoured together, under the Empire Table while the men shrieked repossessing the gold umbrella.
Now the beard on my clock turns white.
My cat stares into dark corners missing her gold umbrella.
She is in love with the Alligator Bride.
Ah, the tiny fine white teeth! The Bride, propped on her tail in white lace stares from the holes of her eyes.
Her stuck-open mouth laughs at minister and people.
On bare new wood fourteen tomatoes, a dozen ears of corn, six bottles of white wine, a melon, a cat, broccoli and the Alligator Bride.
The color of bubble gum, the consistency of petroleum jelly, wickedness oozes from the palm of my left hand.
My cat licks it.
I watch the Alligator Bride.
Big houses like shabby boulders hold themselves tight in gelatin.
I am unable to daydream.
The sky is a gun aimed at me.
I pull the trigger.
The skull of my promises leans in a black closet, gapes with its good mouth for a teat to suck.
A bird flies back and forth in my house that is covered by gelatin and the cat leaps at it missing.
Under the Empire Table the Alligator Bride lies in her bridal shroud.
My left hand leaks on the Chinese carpet.
Written by Thomas Chatterton | Create an image from this poem

The Death of Nicou

 On Tiber's banks, Tiber, whose waters glide 
In slow meanders down to Gaigra's side; 
And circling all the horrid mountain round, 
Rushes impetuous to the deep profound; 
Rolls o'er the ragged rocks with hideous yell; 
Collects its waves beneath the earth's vast shell; 
There for a while in loud confusion hurl'd, 
It crumbles mountains down and shakes the world.
Till borne upon the pinions of the air, Through the rent earth the bursting waves appear; Fiercely propell'd the whiten'd billows rise, Break from the cavern, and ascend the skies; Then lost and conquered by superior force, Through hot Arabia holds its rapid coursel On Tiber's banks where scarlet jas'mines bloom, And purple aloes shed a rich perfume; Where, when the sun is melting in his heat, The reeking tygers find a cool retreat; Bask in the sedges, lose the sultry beam, And wanton with their shadows in the stream; On Tiber's banks, by sacred priests rever'd, Where in the days of old a god appear'd; 'Twas in the dead of night, at Chalma's feast, The tribe of Alra slept around the priest.
He spoke; as evening thunders bursting near, His horrid accents broke upon the ear; Attend, Alraddas, with your sacred priest! This day the sun is rising in the east; The sun, which shall illumine all the earth, Now, now is rising, in a mortal birth.
He vanish'd like a vapour of the night, And sunk away in a faint blaze of light.
Swift from the branches of the holy oak, Horror, confusion, fear, and torment brake; And still when midnight trims her mazy lamp, They take their way through Tiber's wat'ry swamp.
On Tiber's banks, close ranked, a warring train, Stretch'd to the distant edge of Galca's plain; So when arrived at Gaigra's highest steep, We view the wide expansion of the deep; See in the gilding of her wat'ry robe, The quick declension of the circling globe; From the blue sea a chain of mountains rise, Blended at once with water and with skies; Beyond our sight in vast extension curl'd, The check of waves, the guardians of the world.
Strong were the warriors, as the ghost of Cawn, Who threw the Hill-of-archers to the lawn; When the soft earth at his appearance fled; And rising billows play'd around his head; When a strong tempest rising from the main, Dashed the full clouds, unbroken on the plain.
Nicou, immortal in the sacred song, Held the red sword of war, and led the strong; From his own tribe the sable warriors came, Well try'd in battle, and well known in fame.
Nicou, descended from the god of war, Who lived coeval with the morning star; Narada was his name; who cannot tell How all the world through great Narada fell! Vichon, the god who ruled above the skies, Look'd, on Narada, but with envious eyes; The warrior dared him, ridiculed his might, Bent his white bow, and summon'd him to fight.
Vichon, disdainful, bade his lightnings fly, And scatter'd burning arrows in the sky; Threw down a star the armour of his feet, To burn the air with supernat'ral heat; Bid a loud tempes roar beneath the ground; Lifted him up, and bore him thro' the sea.
The waters still ascending fierce and high, He tower'd into the chambers of the sky; There Vichon sat, his armour on his bed, He thought Narada with the mighty dead.
Before his seat the heavenly warrior stands, The lightning quiv'ring in his yellow hands.
The god astonish'd dropt; hurl'd from the shore, He dropt to torments, and to rise no more.
Head-long he falls; 'tis his own arms compel.
Condemn'd in ever-burning fires to dwell.
From this Narada, mighty Nicou sprung; The mighty Nicou, furious, wild and young.
Who led th'embattled archers to the field, And more a thunderbolt upon his shield; That shield his glorious father died to gain, When the white warriors fled along the plain, When the full sails could not provoke the flood, Till Nicou came and swell'd the seas with blood.
Slow at the end of his robust array, The mighty warrior pensive took his way; Against the son of Nair, the young Rorest, Once the companion of his youthful breast.
Strong were the passions of the son of Nair, Strong, as the tempest of the evening air.
Insatiate in desire; fierce as the boar; Firm in resolve as Cannie's rocky shore.
Long had the gods endeavour'd to destroy, All Nicou's friendship, happiness, and joy: They sought in vain, 'till Vicat, Vichon's son, Never in feats of wickedness outdone, Saw Nica, sister to the Mountain king, Drest beautiful, with all the flow'rs of spring; He saw, and scatter'd poison in her eyes; From limb to limb in varied forms he flies; Dwelt on her crimson lip, and added grace To every glossy feature of her face.
Rorest was fir'd with passion at the sight.
Friendship and honor, sunk to Vicat's right; He saw, he lov'd, and burning with desire, Bore the soft maid from brother, sister, sire.
Pining with sorrow, Nica faded, died, Like a fair alow, in its morning pride.
This brought the warrior to the bloody mead, And sent to young Rorest the threat'ning reed.
He drew his army forth: Oh, need I tell! That Nicou conquer'd, and the lover fell; His breathless army mantled all the plain; And Death sat smiling on the heaps of slain.
The battle ended, with his reeking dart, The pensive Nicou pierc'd his beating heart; And to his mourning valiant warriors cry'd, I, and my sister's ghost are satisfy'd.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

Psalm 07

Upon The Words Of Chush The Benjamite Against Him.
Lord my God to thee I flie Save me and secure me under Thy protection while I crie Least as a Lion (and no wonder) He hast to tear my Soul asunder Tearing and no rescue nigh.
Lord my God if I have thought Or done this, if wickedness Be in my hands, if I have wrought Ill to him that meant me peace, Or to him have render'd less, And fre'd my foe for naught; Let th'enemy pursue my soul And overtake it, let him tread My life down to the earth and roul In the dust my glory dead, In the dust and there out spread Lodge it with dishonour foul.
Rise Jehovah in thine ire Rouze thy self amidst the rage Of my foes that urge like fire; And wake for me, their furi' asswage; Judgment here thou didst ingage And command which I desire.
So th' assemblies of each Nation Will surround thee, seeking right, Thence to thy glorious habitation Return on high and in their sight.
Jehovah judgeth most upright All people from the worlds foundation.
Judge me Lord, be judge in this According to my righteousness And the innocence which is Upon me: cause at length to cease Of evil men the wickedness And their power that do amiss.
But the just establish fast, Since thou art the just God that tries Hearts and reins.
On God is cast My defence, and in him lies In him who both just and wise Saves th' upright of Heart at last.
God is a just Judge and severe, And God is every day offended; If th' unjust will not forbear, His Sword he whets, his Bow hath bended Already, and for him intended The tools of death, that waits him near.
(His arrows purposely made he For them that persecute.
) Behold He travels big with vanitie, Trouble he hath conceav'd of old As in a womb, and from that mould Hath at length brought forth a Lie.
He dig'd a pit, and delv'd it deep, And fell into the pit he made, His mischief that due course doth keep, Turns on his head, and his ill trade Of violence will undelay'd Fall on his crown with ruine steep.
Then will I Jehovah's praise According to his justice raise And sing the Name and Deitie Of Jehovah the most high.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

Psalm 05

Jehovah to my words give ear My meditation waigh The voyce of my complaining hear My King and God for unto thee I pray.
Jehovah thou my early voyce Shalt in the morning hear Ith'morning I to thee with choyce Will rank my Prayers, and watch till thou appear.
For thou art not a God that takes In wickedness delight Evil with thee no biding makes Fools or mad men stand not within thy sight.
All workers of iniquity Thou wilt destroy that speak a ly The bloodi' and guileful man God doth detest.
But I will in thy mercies dear Thy numerous mercies go Into thy house; I in thy fear Will towards thy holy temple worship low.
Lord lead me in thy righteousness Lead me because of those That do observe if I transgress, Set thy wayes right before, where my step goes.
For in his faltring mouth unstable No word is firm or sooth Their inside, troubles miserable; An open grave their throat, their tongue they smooth.
God, find them guilty, let them fall By their own counsels quell'd; Push them in their rebellions all Still on; for against thee they have rebell'd; Then all who trust in thee shall bring Their joy, while thou from blame Defend'st them, they shall ever sing And shall triumph in thee, who love thy name.
For thou Jehovah wilt be found To bless the just man still, As with a shield thou wilt surround Him with thy lasting favour and good will.