Poetry

This man, if a crowd of the capricious Quirites strive to raise him to the highest dignities; another, if he has stored up in his own granary whatsoever is swept from the Libyan thrashing floors: him who delights to cut with the hoe his patrimonial fields, you could never tempt, for all the wealth of Attalus, [to become] a timorous sailor and cross the Myrtoan sea in a Cyprian bark. The merchant, dreading the south-west wind contending with the Icarian waves, commends

tranquility and the rural retirement of his village; but soon after, incapable of being taught to bear poverty, he refits his shattered vessel. There is another, who despises not cups of old Massic, taking a part from the entire day, one while stretched under the green arbute, another at the placid head of some sacred stream.

Maecenas atavis edite regibus, O et praesidium et dulce decus meum, Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum Collegisse iuvat metaque fervidis Evitata rotis palmaque nobilis Terrarum dominos evehit ad deos; Hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium Certat tergeminis tollere honoribus; Illum, si proprio condidit horreo, Quidquid de Libycis verritur areis. Gaudentem patrios findere sarculo Agros Attalicis condicionibus Numquam dimoveas, ut trabe Cypria

Myrtoum pavidus nauta secet mare. Luctantem Icariis fluctibus Africum Mercator metuens otium et oppidi Laudat rura sui; mox reficit ratis Quassas, indocilis pauperiem pati. Est qui nec veteris pocula Massici Nec partem solido demere de die Spernit, nunc viridi membra sub arbuto Stratus nunc ad aquae lene caput sacrae. Multos castra iuvant et lituo tubae Permixtus sonitus bellaque matribus Detestata. Manet sub Iove frigido Venator tenerae

Byron would have probably have been flattered by such an association. Scott tells us that in his youth he "devoured rather than perused" Ossian and that he could repeat whole duans "without remorse"; and, as I shall discuss later, Byron paid Macpherson the high compliment of writing an imitation of Ossian, which he published in Hours of Idleness.
The publication of the modest and anonymous pamphlet, Fragments of Ancient

Poetrymarks the beginning of Macpherson's rise to fame, and concomitantly the startof a controversy that is unique in literary history. For the half-century that followed, the body of poetry that was eventually collected as The Poems of Ossianprovoked the comment of nearly every important man of letters. Extravagance and partisanship were characteristic of most of the remarks, but few literary men were indifferent. Continue reading

Exhibit the unadorned.
Hold fast to the uncarved block.
Avoid the thought of Self.
Eliminate desire.

The Tao Te ChingXIX

The Way has no name.
The uncarved block is small But no one dare claim it.
When it is carved there are names.
When there are names it is time to stop.

The Tao Te Ching XXXII

PRAISES OF SOBHUZA II
Posted in Praise Poetry and tagged SobhuzaII, Swaziland.
Sobhuza II (1899-1982), one of the most remarkable Africans of the last century, was king of Swaziland for 61 years. Educated at the Lovedale Institution in South Africa and an early member of the African National Congress, he was at the same time a passionate traditionalist, pledged as he once put it "to extricate Africa from this idea of one man one vote".

The kingdom he inherited was in a disastrous state, and he recognised from the start the monarchy was his best asset in combating colonial rule. He played the part with consummate skill, persuading anthropologists like Max Goodman and Hilda Kuper that the Swazis were an ancient nation with ancient customs, and dispatching two regiments, the Emasotja and the Sikonyane, to serve with British forces in World war 2, "stabbing and killing" like traditional

God, that all this world did make
And died for us upon a tree,
Save England, for MARY thy Mother's sake!
As Thou art steadfast GOD in Trinity.
And save King HENRY'S soul, I beseech thee!
That was full gracious and good withal;
A courteous Knight and King royal.
Of HENRYthe Fifth, noble man of war,Thy deeds may never forgotten be!

Of Knighthood thou wert the very Loadstar!
In thy time England flowered in prosperity,
Thou mortal Mirror of all Chivalry!
Though thou be not set among the Worthies Nine;
Yet wast thou a Conqueror in thy time!
THE DAUPHIN'S OFFER OF TENNIS BALLS. Continue reading

Readers of a lecture published by the University of Manchester on English Poetry and German Philosophy in the Age of Wordsworth will pardon also the restatement of some ideas expressed in it.

The several lectures are dated, as I have been unable to take account of most of the literature on their subjects published since they were delivered.

They are arranged in the order that seems best to me, but it is of importance only in the case of the four which deal with the poets of Wordsworth"s time.

I am indebted to the Delegates of the University Press, and to the proprietors and editors of the Hibbert Journaland the Albany, Fortnightly, and Quarterly Reviews, respectively, for permission to republish the first, third, fifth, eighth, and ninth lectures. Continue reading

BOB SOUTHEY!
You're a poet--Poet-laureate,
And representative of all the race,
Although't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at
Last, yours has lately been a common case;
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like 'four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;'

'Which pye being open'd they began to sing'
(This old song and new simile holds good),
'A dainty dish to set before the King,'
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;--
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,--
Explaining metaphysics to the nation--
I wish he would explain his

He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.
"Hold off! unhand me, grey beard loon!
"Eft soons his hand dropt he.
[Sidenote: The Wedding Guest is spellbound by the eye of
the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.]

He holds him with his glittering eye
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years'

child:
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner."
The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared,
Merrily did we dropBelow the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top. Continue reading

That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of CHAOS: Or if SION Hill
Delight thee more, and SILOA'S Brookthat flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar

Above th' AONIAN Mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.

And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first Continue reading

One's-Self I Sing One's-self I sing,
a simple separate person,
Yetutter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say
the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
As I Ponder'd in Silence As I ponder'd in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
The thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In sich a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lives, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.