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

No biography available

Thomas Oldham

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

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

Lines On Milton

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

Anacreontic

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

Lines On Shakspeare

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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

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

Apollo Musagetes

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
Thick breaks the red flame;
All Etna heaves fiercely
Her forest-clothed frame.
Not here, O Apollo!
Are haunts meet for thee.
But, where Helicon breaks down
In cliff to the sea,
Where the moon-silver'd 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 lull'd by the rills,
Lie wrapped in their blankets
Asleep on the hills.
What forms are these coming
So white through the gloom?
What garments out-glistening
The gold-flower'd broom?
What sweet-breathing presence
Out-perfumes the thyme?
What v...

Matthew Arnold

To Beauty.

    Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts
        And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe
    Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts
        Such things as words are powerless to describe.
    And bards, who woo thee in the silent shade
        And dote upon thee under moonlit skies,
    And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd,
        As our first parents did in Paradise!

    These all have been thy priests.    In times remote,
        In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells,
    They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note,
        And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wells
    Of leafy Helicon.    Beneath the brows
        Of fam'd Olympus and among the isles
    Of the Aegean sea they paid their vows,
        And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and...

W. M. MacKeracher

Apollo; Or, A Problem Solved

Apollo, god of light and wit,
Could verse inspire, but seldom writ,
Refined all metals with his looks,
As well as chemists by their books;
As handsome as my lady's page;
Sweet five-and-twenty was his age.
His wig was made of sunny rays,
He crown'd his youthful head with bays;
Not all the court of Heaven could show
So nice and so complete a beau.
No heir upon his first appearance,
With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents,
E'er drove, before he sold his land,
So fine a coach along the Strand;
The spokes, we are by Ovid told,
Were silver, and the axle gold:
I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four,
For Jupiter allows no more.
    Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts,
Enough to win ten thousand hearts,
No vulgar deity above
Was so unfortunate ...

Jonathan Swift

Shakespeare Himself: For The Unveiling Of Mr. Partridge'S Statue Of The Poet.

The body is no prison where we lie
Shut out from our true heritage of sun;
It is the wings wherewith the soul may fly.
Save through this flesh so scorned and spat upon,
No ray of light had reached the caverned mind,
No thrill of pleasure through the life had run,
No love of nature or of humankind,
Were it but love of self, had stirred the heart
To its first deed. Such freedom as we find,
We find but through its service, not apart.
And as an eagle's wings upbear him higher
Than Andes or Himalaya, and chart
Rivers and seas beneath; so our desire,
With more celestial members yet, may soar
Into the space of empyrean fire,
Still bodied but more richly than before.

The body is the man; what lurks behind
Through it alone unveils itself. Therefore
We a...

Bliss Carman