Inscription For The Apollo Belvidere

O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight
Behold this image of the God of light;
Admire its whole, admire its every part;
'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art.
Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere
The God appears, than in his Image here.

Thomas Oldham

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Thomas Oldham

Kiss, The

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

Song To Bacchus

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Lines On Milton

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Epigram On The Conduct Of Some Few Clergymen, Who Are A Disgrace To Their Sacred Profession

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

English

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On Seeing The Apollo Belvidere

What majesty! what elegance and grace!
The form how perfect! how divine the face!
In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:
Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?
No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;
I feel the presence of the Deity.

Thomas Oldham

On The Portrait Of The Son Of J.G. Lambton, Esq., M.P. By Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.

Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts
Are pictured in thine eyes,
Thou hast no taint of mortal birth,
Thy communing is not of earth,
Thy holy musings rise:
Like incense kindled from on high,
Ascending to its native sky.

And such a head might once have graced
The infant Samuel, when
Call'd by the favour of his God,
The youthful priest the Temple trod
Beloved of Heaven and men!
The same devotion on his brow
As brightens in thy forehead now.

Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye
One borne by arms Divine;
One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd,
And on whose features left impress'd
The Contact's holy sign:
A light, a halo, and a grace,
So pure th' expression of that face.

Or, has the Painter's skill alone
Such gra...

Thomas Gent

Apollo

CALLICLES (front below)


Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
Thick breaks the red flame;
All Etna heaves fiercely
Her forest-clothd frame.

Not here, O Apollo
Are haunts meet for thee.
But, where Helicon breaks down
In cliff to the sea,

Where the moon-silverd inlets
Send far their light voice
Up the still vale of Thisbe,
O speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top
Lie strewn the white flocks;
On the cliff-side the pigeons
Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,
Soft lulld by the rills,
Lie wrapt in their blankets,
Asleep on the hills.

What forms are these coming
So white through the gloom:
What garments out-glistening
The gold-flowerd broom?
...

Matthew Arnold

Opifex

As I was carving images from clouds,
And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes
Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries:
"Forbear!" and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds.

"Forbear!" Thou hast no tools wherewith to essay
The delicate waves of that elusive grain:
Wouldst have due recompense of vulgar pain?
The potter's wheel for thee, and some coarse clay!

"So work, if work thou must, O humbly skilled!
Thou hast not known the Master; in thy soul
His spirit moves not with a sweet control;
Thou art outside, and art not of the guild."

Thereat I rose, and from his presence passed,
But, going, murmured: "To the God above,
Who holds my heart, and knows its store of love,
I turn from thee, thou proud iconoclast."

Then on the shore G...

Thomas Edward Brown

The Book

Gallery of sacred pictures manifold,
A minster rich in holy effigies,
And bearing on entablature and frieze
The hieroglyphic oracles of old.
Along its transept aureoled martyrs sit;
And the low chancel side-lights half acquaint
The eye with shrines of prophet, bard, and saint,
Their age-dimmed tablets traced in doubtful writ!
But only when on form and word obscure
Falls from above the white supernal light
We read the mystic characters aright,
And life informs the silent portraiture,
Until we pause at last, awe-held, before
The One ineffable Face, love, wonder, and adore

John Greenleaf Whittier

Her Temple

Dear, think not that they will forget you:
If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
Therein as its shrine.

They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
Be told, "O, so sweet was her fame,
That a man heaped this splendour upon her;
None now knows his name."

Thomas Hardy