Odes From Horace. - To [1]Munatius Plancus. Book The First, Ode The Seventh.

Be far-fam'd [2]RHODES the theme of loftier strains,
Or [3]MITYLENE, as their Bard decrees;
Or EPHESUS, where great DIANA reigns,
Or CORINTH, towering 'twixt the rival seas;
Or THEBES, illustrious in thy birth divine,
Purpureal BACCHUS; - or of PHOEBUS' shrine
DELPHOS oracular; or warbling hail
Thessalian TEMPE's flower-embroider'd vale.

The Art-crown'd City, chaste MINERVA's pride,
There are, whose endless numbers have pourtray'd;
They, to each tree that spreads its branches wide,
Prefer the [4]tawny Olive's scanty shade.
Many, in JUNO's honor, sing thy meads,
Green ARGOS, glorying in thy agile steeds;
Or opulent MYCENE, whose proud fanes
The blood of murder'd AGAMEMNON stains.

Nor patient LACEDÆMON wakes my lyre,
Who trains her Sons to all the Warrior's toil;
Nor me [5]LARISSA's airy graces fire,
Tho' round her hills the golden vallies smile:
But my lov'd mansion, 'mid the circling wood,
On the green bank of clear Alb[=u]nea's flood,
Its walls resounding with the echo'd roar,
As Anio's torrents down the mountain pour.

Amid my blooming orchards pleas'd I rove,
Guiding the ductile course of murmuring rills;
Or mark the curtains of the sacred grove
Sink in the vales, or sweep along the hills.
[6]Ah Friend! if round my cell such graces shine,
The PALACE of Tiburnian Shades is thine;
She every feature of the Scene commands,
And Empress of its varied beauty stands.

Tho' frequent mists the young Favonius shroud,
Bending his flagging wing with heavy rains,
Yet oft he chases every showery cloud,
Winnowing, with pinion light, th' aerial plains;
Ah! thus from thee let each dark vapor roll,
That rash Ambition gathers on the soul;
The jocund Pleasures in her absence rise,
Glow in the breast, and sparkle in the eyes.

And thou, MUNATIUS, whether Fate ordain
The Camp thy home, with glancing javelins bright;
Or if the graces of that fair domain,
Umbrageous Tivoli, thy steps invite;
If trumpets sound the clang that Warriors love,
Or round thee trill the choirings of the grove,
In flowing bowls drown every vain regret,
Enjoy the PRESENT, and the PAST forget!

The walls of SALAMIS when TEUCER fled,
Driven by a Parent's unrelenting frown,
Hope from his spirit chas'd each anxious dread,
While on his brow he bound the poplar crown;
In rich libation pour'd the generous wine,
Then bath'd his temples in the juice divine;
And thus, with gladden'd eye, and air sedate,
Address'd the drooping Followers of his fate.

"Wherever Destiny, a kinder friend
Than he who gave me birth, may point the way,
Thither resolv'd our duteous steps shall bend,
Nor know presaging fear, nor weak delay.
Doubt flies when Teucer leads, and cold despair,
In Teucer's auspices, shall melt to air;
Phoebus ordains that, in more favoring skies,
Another prosp'rous SALAMIS shall rise.

"So much alike her fountains, fanes, and bowers,
That e'en her name shall dubious meaning bear; -
Then, my lov'd Friends, who oft, in darker hours,
Have shar'd with me a conflict more severe,
O! let us lose in wine our sorrow's weight,
And rise the masters of our future fate!
This night we revel in convivial ease,
To-morrow seek again the vast and pathless seas."

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 XIII.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Odes From Horace. - [1]To Telephus. Book The Third, Ode The Nineteenth.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet III. Written At Buxton In A Rainy Season.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LXII.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

English

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Elegy I To Charles Diodati.1

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home,
They come, at length, from Deva's² Western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.³
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home.
I well content, where Thames with refluent tide
My native city laves, meantime reside,
Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impell
To reedy Cam,⁴ and my forbidden cell.⁵
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats⁶ disdain,
And fly from wrongs, my soul will ne'e...

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Odes From Horace. - [1]To Telephus. Book The Third, Ode The Nineteenth.

The number of the vanish'd years
    That mark each famous Grecian reign,
This night, my Telephus, appears
    Thy solemn pleasure to explain;

Or else assiduously to dwell,
    In conscious eloquence elate,
On those who conquer'd, those who fell
    At sacred Troy's devoted gate.

But at what price the cask, so rare,
    Of luscious chian may be ours,
Who shall the tepid baths prepare,
    And who shall strew the blooming flowers;

Beneath what roof we next salute,
    And when shall smile these gloomy skies,
Thy wondrous eloquence is mute,
    Nor here may graver topics rise. -

Fill a bright bumper, - to the Moon!
    She's new! - auspicious be her birth!
One to the Midnight! - 't is our noon
    Of jocund thought, and fes...

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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...

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Elegy I. To Charles Diodati.[1]

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home,
They come, at length, from Deva's^[2] Western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.^[3]
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home.
I well content, where Thames with refluent tide
My native city laves, meantime reside,
Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impell
To reedy Cam,^[4] and my forbidden cell.^[5]
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats^[6] disdain,
And fly from wrongs, my soul...

William Cowper

To Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa.

¹Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian Nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for Genius, Literature,and military accomplishments. To Him Torquato Tasso addressed his "Dialogue on Friendship," for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled "Jerusalem Conquered" (Book XX).

Among cavaliers magnanimous and courteous - Manso is resplendent.

During the Author's stay at Naples he received at the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him this poem a short time before his departure from that city.


These verses also to thy praise the Nine²
Oh Manso! happy in that theme design,
For, Gallus and Maec...

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Laodamia

"With sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore;
Restore him to my sight great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens and her eye expands;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
As she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived? O joy!
What doth she look on? whom doth she behold?
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
It is if sense deceive her not 'tis He!
And a God leads him, wing...

William Wordsworth