Odes From Horace. - [1]To Titus Valgius. Book The Second, Ode The Ninth.

Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower
    That drenches deep the furrow'd lea;
Nor do continual tempests pour
    On the vex'd [2]Caspian's billowy sea;
Nor yet the ice, in silent horror, stands
Thro' all the passing months on pale [3]Armenia's Lands.

Fierce storms do not for ever bend
    The Mountain's vast and labouring oak,
Nor from the ash its foliage rend,
    With ruthless whirl, and widowing stroke;
But, Valgius, thou, with grief's eternal lays
Mournest thy vanish'd joys in MYSTES' shorten'd days.

When [4]Vesper trembles in the west,
    Or flies before the orient sun,
Rise the lone sorrows of thy breast. -
    Not thus did aged Nestor shun
Consoling strains, nor always sought the tomb,
Where sunk his [5]filial Hopes, in life and glory's bloom.

Not thus, the lovely Troilus slain,
    His Parents wept the Princely Boy;
Nor thus his Sisters mourn'd, in vain,
    The blasted Flower of sinking Troy;
Cease, then, thy fond complaints! - Augustus' fame,
The new Cesarian wreaths, let thy lov'd voice proclaim!

So shall the listening World be told
    [6]Medus, and cold Niphates guide,
With all their mighty Realms controul'd,
    Their late proud waves in narrower tide;
That in scant space their steeds the [7]Scythians rein,
Nor dare transgress the bounds our Victor Arms ordain.

Anna Seward

Anna Seward was an English Romantic poet often called the 'Swan of Lichfield'. She was known for both her poetry and her extensive letter writing, which provided insight into 18th-century literary life. Seward was a steadfast critic of the neoclassicism that dominated much of the contemporary poetry scene, favoring a Romantic approach that sought to capture emotion and natural beauty. Her works often revolved around themes of love, loss, and nature. She was also a close friend of writers such as Erasmus Darwin and Samuel Johnson.

Anna Seward

Sonnet LIV. A Persian King To His Son.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LIII. Written In The Spring 1785 On The Death Of The Poet Laureat.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LXXXI. On A Lock Of Miss Sarah Seward's Hair Who Died In Her Twentieth Year.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LXI. To Mr. Henry Cary[1], On Reading His Sonnets Written At Sixteen.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Odes From Horace. - To Lyce, On Her Refusing To Admit His Visits. Book The Third, Ode The Tenth.

Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave,
Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave,
    A barbarous Scythian's Bride,
Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear
Your Lover braves the winds severe,
    That pierce his aching side.

O listen to the howling groves,
That labour o'er your proud alcoves,
    And hear the jarring door!
Mark how the star, at eve that rose,
Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows,
    While every leaf is hoar!

Gay Venus hates this cold disdain; -
Cease then its rigors to maintain,
    That sprightly joys impede,
Lest the strain'd cord, with which you bind
The freedom of my amorous mind,
    In rapid whirl recede!

Born of a jocund Tuscan Sire,
Did he transmit his ardent fire
    That, like Ulysses' Queen,
His...

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To Lydia. Book The First, Ode The Eighth.

    O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell
Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ
    The strongest power of amorous spell
    On Sybaris, belov'd too well,
Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?

    Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare,
Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat?
    Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear
    In which he us'd, with graceful air,
Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet?

    Why is it now no more his pride
To rein the ardent horse with agile arm?
    With new-strung sinews to divide
    The yellow Tyber's angry tide,
When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?

    Why hates he, as the viper's gore,
The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein?
    Why do we see his arms no more
    With livid bruises spotted o'e...

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To Posthumus. Book The Second, Ode The Fourteenth.

Alas! my Posthumus, the Years
    Unpausing glide away;
Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers,
    Their fleeting pace delay;
Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend,
Nor from the stoop of Age the faltering Frame defend.

Time goads us on, relentless Sire!
    On to the shadowy Shape, that stands
Terrific on the funeral pyre,
    Waving the already kindled brands. -
Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed,
Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed.

Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood,
    That skirts the verge of mortal light,
He chains the Forms, on earth that stood
    Proud, and gigantic in their might;
That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide
Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide.
...

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To Mæcenas. Book The First, Ode The First.

I.

Mæcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung,
    For whom my golden lyre I strung,
Friend, Patron, Guardian of its rising song,
    O mark the Youth, that towers along,
    With triumph in his air;
    Proud of Olympic dust, that soils
    His burning cheek and tangled hair!
Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown'd his toils!
    Each look the throbbing hope reveals
    That his fleet steeds and kindling wheels,
Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal,
Shall with illustrious Chiefs his echo'd name enrol.


II.

    Who the civic crown obtains,
    Or bears into his granaries large
The plenteous tribute of the Libyan Plains;
Or he, who watches still a rural charge,
    O'er his own fields directs the plough,
    Sees his own fr...

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To [1]Thaliarchus. Book The First, Ode The Ninth.

In dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers,
As all the mountain were one heap of snow!
Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers;
The frost-bound waters can no longer flow.

Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth,
Dissolve the ice-dart ere it reach thy veins;
Bring mellow wines to prompt convivial mirth,
Nor heed th' arrested streams, or slippery plains.

High Heaven, resistless in his varied sway,
Speaks! - The wild elements contend no more;
Nor then, from raging seas, the foamy spray
Climbs the dark rocks, or curls upon the shore.

And peaceful then yon aged ash shall stand;
In breathless calm the dusky cypress rise;
To-morrow's destiny the Gods command,
To-day is thine; - enjoy it, and be wise!

Youth's radiant tide too swif...

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To Licinius Murena[1]. Book The Second, Ode The Tenth.

Not always, dear Licinius, is it wise
On the main Sea to ply the daring Oar;
Nor is it safe, from dread of angry Skies,
Closely to press on the insidious Shore.
To no excess discerning Spirits lean,
They feel the blessings of the golden mean;
They will not grovel in the squalid cell,
Nor seek in princely domes, with envied pomp, to dwell.

The pine, that lifts so high her stately boughs,
Writhes in the storms, and bends beneath their might,
Innoxious while the loudest tempest blows
O'er trees, that boast a less-aspiring height.
As the wild fury of the whirlwind pours,
With direst ruin fall the loftiest towers;
And 't is the mountain's summit that, oblique,
From the dense, lurid clouds, the baleful lightnings strike.

A mind well disciplin'd, w...

Anna Seward