An Orator's Complaint

How many the troubles that wait
    On mortals!--especially those
    Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.

Did you ever attempt to speak
    When you hadn't a word to say?
    Did you find that it wouldn't pay,
And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?

Did you ever, when going ahead
    In a fervid defence of the Stage,
    Get checked in your noble rage
By somehow losing your thread?

Did you ever rise to reply
    To a toast (say 'The Volunteers'),
    And evoke loud laughter and cheers,
When you didn't exactly know why?

Did you ever wax witty, and when
    You had smashed an opponent quite small,
    Did he seem not to mind it at all,
But get up and smash you again?

If any or all of these things
    Have happened to you (as to me),
    I think you'll be found to agree
With yours truly, when sadly he sings:

'How many the troubles that wait
    On mortals!--especially those
    Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.'

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

To J. R.

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The End Of April

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Truce

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Horace's Philosophy

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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As I was walking down the street
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Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
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His name is Alexander Bell,
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He gave my hand a hearty shake,
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A Song Of Greek Prose

    Thrice happy are those
    Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
    For Liddell and Scott
    Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.

    But I, late at night,
    By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
    Some stuff that a Greek
    With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.

    For when it is done,
    I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
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    Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.

    It was all very fine
    For a poet divine
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Robert Fuller Murray

An Epistle To Robert Lloyd, Esq.

Tis not that I design to rob
Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,
For thou art born sole heir, and single,
Of dear Mat Priors easy jingle;
Not that I mean, while thus I knit
My threadbare sentiments together,
To show my genius or my wit,
When God and you know I have neither;
Or such as might be better shown
By letting poetry alone.
Tis not with either of these views
That I presumed to address the muse:
But to divert a fierce banditti
(Sworn foes to every thing thats witty!)
That, with a black, infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense;
The fierce banditti which I mean
Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen.
Then theres another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly...

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Address, Spoken By Miss Fontenelle On Her Benefit Night.

    Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
    And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
    A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
    'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
    So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
    Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
    Said nothing like his works was ever printed;
    And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!
    "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
    "I know your bent, these are no laughing times:
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    Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears;
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A College Career

I

When one is young and eager,
    A bejant and a boy,
Though his moustache be meagre,
    That cannot mar his joy
When at the Competition
He takes a fair position,
And feels he has a mission,
    A talent to employ.

With pride he goes each morning
    Clad in a scarlet gown,
A cap his head adorning
    (Both bought of Mr. Brown);
He hears the harsh bell jangle,
And enters the quadrangle,
The classic tongues to mangle
    And make the ancients frown.

He goes not forth at even,
    He burns the midnight oil,
He feels that all his heaven
    Depends on ceaseless toil;
Across his exercises
A dream of many prizes
Before his spirit rises,
    And makes his raw blood boil.

II

Though he b...

Robert Fuller Murray

To My Friend Mr Motteux,[1] On His Tragedy Called "Beauty In Distress."

    'Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age,
    As damns, not only poets, but the stage.
    That sacred art, by Heaven itself infused,
    Which Moses, David, Solomon have used,
    Is now to be no more: the Muses' foes
    Would sink their Maker's praises into prose.
    Were they content to prune the lavish vine
    Of straggling branches, and improve the wine,
    Who but a madman would his thoughts defend?
    All would submit; for all but fools will mend.
    But when to common sense they give the lie,
    And turn distorted words to blasphemy,
    They give the scandal; and the wise discern,
    Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn.
    What I have loosely, or profanely, writ,
    Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:
    Nor, when...

John Dryden