To G. C. And R. L.

'Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
This, I believe, between us great or small,
You, I, he, wrote it not 'twas Churchill's all.

Oliver Goldsmith

Oliver Goldsmith was an Irish novelist, playwright, and poet, best known for his novel 'The Vicar of Wakefield' (1766), his pastoral poem 'The Deserted Village' (1770), and his play 'She Stoops to Conquer' (1773). He was a versatile writer with works ranging from prose to poetry to drama and was a central figure in the literary circle known as the 'Club' alongside Samuel Johnson and Edmund Burke. His writing often depicted rural life and he became an important part of 18th-century English literature.

Oliver Goldsmith

Of The Death Of The Right Hon. ***

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

The Gift

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

Threnodia Augustalis:

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

On Seeing Mrs. ** Perform In The Character Of ****

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

English

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For Whittier's Seventieth Birthday

I believe that the copies of verses I've spun,
Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand and one;
You remember the story, - those mornings in bed, -
'T was the turn of a copper, - a tale or a head.

A doom like Scheherezade's falls upon me
In a mandate as stern as the Sultan's decree
I'm a florist in verse, and what would people say
If I came to a banquet without my bouquet?

It is trying, no doubt, when the company knows
Just the look and the smell of each lily and rose,
The green of each leaf in the sprigs that I bring,
And the shape of the bunch and the knot of the string.

Yes, - "the style is the man," and the nib of one's pen
Makes the same mark at twenty, and threescore and ten;
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Oliver Wendell Holmes

An Epistle To Joseph Hill, Esq.

Dear Joseph,--five and twenty years ago--
Alas, how time escapes!--'tis even so--
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour--and now we never meet.
As some grave gentleman in Terence says
('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days),
"Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings--
Strange fluctuation of all human things!"
True. Changes will befall, and friends may part,
But distance only cannot change the heart:
And were I called to prove the assertion true,
One proof should serve--a reference to you.

Whence comes it, then, that in the wane of life,
Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife,
We find the friends we fancied we had won,
Though numerous once, reduced to few or none?
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William Cowper

Were you with me, or I with you

Were you with me, or I with you,
Theres nought, methinks, I might not do;
Could venture here, and venture there,
And never fear, nor ever care.

To things before, and things behind,
Could turn my thoughts, and turn my mind,
On this and that, day after day,
Could dare to throw myself away.

Secure, when all was oer, to find
My proper thought, my perfect mind,
And unimpaired receive anew
My own and better self in you.

Arthur Hugh Clough

Two Pastorals

Made by Sir Philip Sidney, upon his meeting with his two worthy friends and fellow poets, Sir Edward Dyer and M. Fulke Greville.

Join mates in mirth to me,
Grant pleasure to our meeting;
Let Pan, our good god, see
How grateful is our greeting.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.

Ye hymns and singing skill
Of god Apollo's giving,
Be pressed our reeds to fill
With sound of music living.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.

Sweet Orpheus' harp, whose sound
The stedfast mountains moved,
Let there thy skill abound,
To join sweet friends beloved.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.

My two and I be met,
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Philip Sidney

A Letter To Mr. Tickell,

Occasioned by the Death of the Right Hon. Joseph Addison, Esq., 1719.


        --Tu nunc eris alter ab illo.

                                                VIRG.


O long with me in Oxford groves confin'd,
In social arts and sacred friendship join'd;
Fair Isis' sorrow, and fair Isis' boast,
Lost from her side, but fortunately lost;
Thy wonted aid, my dear companion! bring,
And teach me thy departed friend to sing:
A darling theme! once powerful to inspire,
And now to melt, the muses' mournful choir:
Now, and now first, we freely dare commend
His modest worth, nor shall our praise offend.

Early he bloom'd amid the learned train,
And ravish'd Isis listen'd to his strain.
"See, see," she cried, "old Maro's muse appears,
Wak'd fro...

Edward Young

Two In One

    Were thou and I the white pinions
    On some eager, heaven-born dove,
    Swift would we mount to the old dominions,
    To our rest of old, my love!

    Were thou and I trembling strands
    In music's enchanted line,
    We would wait and wait for magic hands
    To untwist the magic twine.

    Were we two sky-tints, thou and I,
    Thou the golden, I the red;
    We would quiver and glow and darken and die,
    And love until we were dead!

    Nearer than wings of one dove,
    Than tones or colours in chord,
    We are one--and safe, and for ever, my love,
    Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord.

George MacDonald