Envy poems
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On the Lord General Fairfax at the Siege of Colchester
© John Milton
Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings Filling each mouth with envy, or with praise, And all her jealous monarchs with amaze And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings;Thy firm unshak'n virtue ever brings Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their hydra heads, and the false north displays Her brok'n league, to imp their serpent wings:O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand; For what can war but endless war still breed? Till Truth and Right from Violence be freed,And Public Faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of Public Fraud
We Lean on One Another
© McLachlan Alexander
Oh, come and listen while I sing A song of human nature;For, high or low, we're all akin To ev'ry human creature:We're all the children of the same, The great, the "mighty mother,"And from the cradle to the grave We lean on one another
McAndrew's Hymn
© Rudyard Kipling
Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,An', taught by time, I tak' it so--exceptin' always Steam
Gentlemen-Rankers
© Rudyard Kipling
To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned, To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed, And a trooper of the Empress, if you please
If Love now Reigned as it hath been
© Henry VIII, King of England
If love now reigned as it hath beenAnd were rewarded as it hath sin,
The General Prologue from the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
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An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne
© Thomas Carew
Can we not force from widow'd poetry,Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegyTo crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust,Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flowerOf fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour,Dry as the sand that measures it, should layUpon thy ashes, on the funeral day?Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispenseThrough all our language, both the words and sense?'Tis a sad truth
Who Killed John Keats?
© George Gordon Byron
Are you aware that Shelley has written an elegy on Keats--and accuses the Quarterly of killing him?--
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Third
© George Gordon Byron
I Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smil'd, And then we parted--not as now we part, But with a hope
And Thou art Dead, as Young and Fair
© George Gordon Byron
And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth;And form so soft, and charms so rare, Too soon return'd to Earth!Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,And o'er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth,There is an eye which could not brookA moment on that grave to look
