Poets From England

"Autumn succeeds, a sober, tepid age, Nor froze with fear, nor boiling into rage; Last, Winter creeps along with tardy pace, Sour is his front, and furrow’d is his face."

"Up, up, says Avarice! thou snor’st again, Stretchest thy limbs, and yawn’st, but all in vain: The tyrant Lucre no denial takes; At his command th’ unwilling sluggard wakes."

"Her soul abhorring avarice, Bounteous; but almost bounteous to a vice."

"But more have been by avarice opprest, And heaps of money crowded in the chest."

"Young men to imitate all ills are prone, But are compell'd to avarice alone; For then in virtue's shape they follow vice."

"Nor love his peace of mind destroys, Nor wicked avarice of wealth."

"Go, miser! go: for lucre sell thy soul; Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole, That men may say, when thou art dead and gone, See what a vast estate he left his son!"

"For he who covets gain in such excess Does by dumb signs himself as much express As if in words at length he show’d his mind."

"The base wretch who hoards up all he can Is praised and call’d a careful thrifty man."

"For should you to extortion be inclined, Your cruel guilt will little booty find."

"Like a miser ’midst his store, Who grasps and grasps till he can hold no more."

"As thy strutting bags with money rise, The love of gain is of an equal size."

"From hence the greatest part of ills descend, When lust of getting more will have no end."

"But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods o’er his gold, and, griping still at more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he’s poor."

"Our swords so wholly did the fates employ, That they, at length, grew weary to destroy; Refused the work we brought, and out of breath, Made sorrow and despair attend for death."

"I fought and fell like one, but death deceived me: I wanted weight of feeble Moors upon me, To crush my soul out."

"Here Pallas urges on, and Lausus there; Their congress in the field great Jove withstands: Both doom’d to fall, but fall by greater hands."

"Why asks he what avails him not in fight, And would but cumber and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is placed? You give him death that interrupt his haste."

"They follow their undaunted king; Crowd through their gates; and, in the fields of light, The shocking squadrons meet in mortal fight."

"Two battles your auspicious cause has won; Thy sword can perfect what it has begun."

"A cloud of smoke envelops either host, And all at once the combatants are lost: Darkling they join adverse, and shock unseen, Coursers with coursers justing, mén with men."

"Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball, And now their odours arm’d against them fly: Some preciously by shatter’d porcelain fall, And some by aromatic splinters die."

"Their standard, planted on the battlement, Despair and death among the soldiers sent."

"He to the town return’d, Attended by the chiefs who fought the field, Now friendly mix’d, and in one troop compell’d."

"Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends; A formidable man, but to his friends."

"The Grecians rally, and their powers unite; With fury charge us, and renew the fight."

"Would you the advantage of the fight delay If, striking first, you were to win the day?"

"He with his sword unsheathed, on pain of life, Commands both combatants to cease their strife."

"He had made the language his study; and though he wrote hastily, and often incorrectly, and his style is not free from faults, yet there is a richness in his diction, a copiousness, ease, and variety in his expression, which has not been surpassed by any who have come after him."

"Here let me bend, great Dryden, at thy shrine, Thou dearest name to all the tuneful nine. What if some dull lines in cold order creep, And with his theme the poet seems to sleep? Still, when his subject rises proud to view, With equal strength the poet rises too: With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught, Thought still springs up and rises out of thought; Numbers ennobling numbers in their course, In varied sweetness flow, in varied force; The powers of genius and of judgment join, And the whole Art of Poetry is thine."

"What is there in Dryden? Much, but above all this: he is the most masculine of our poets; his style and his rhythms lay the strongest stress of all our literature on the naked thew and sinew of the English language."

"Dryden may be properly considered as the father of English criticism, as the writer who first taught us to determine upon principles the merit of composition."

"None of his prefaces were ever thought tedious. They have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the periods modelled; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid; the whole is airy, animated, and vigorous: what is little is gay; what is great is splendid. [...] Though all is easy, nothing is feeble; though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh; and though since his earlier works more than a century has passed they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete."

"Of Dryden's works it was said by Pope, that he "could select from them better specimens of every mode of poetry than any other English writer could supply." Perhaps no nation ever produced a writer that enriched his language with such variety of models. To him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion, of our metre, the refinement of our language, and much of the correctness of our sentiments. By him we are taught "sapere et fari," to think naturally and express forcibly. [...] it may be, perhaps, maintained that he was the first who joined argument with poetry. He showed us the true bounds of a translator's liberty. What was said of Rome, adorned by Augustus, may be applied by an easy metaphor to English poetry, embellished by Dryden, "lateritiam invenit, marmoream reliquit." He found it brick, and he left it marble."

"The rectitude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people; and when he pleased others, he contented himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers; he never attempted to make that better which was already good, nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He wrote, as he tells us, with very little consideration; when occasion or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present moment happened to supply, and, when once it had passed the press, ejected it from his mind; for, when he had no pecuniary interest, he had no further solicitude."

"Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity; he composed without consideration, and published without correction. What his mind could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave."

"Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine."

"Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, The last and greatest art, the art to blot."

"I learned versification chiefly from Dryden's works, who has improved it much beyond any of our former poets, and would probably have brought it to its perfection, had not he been unhappily obliged to write so often in haste."

"Dryden has neither a tender heart nor a lofty sense of moral dignity: where his language is poetically impassioned it is mostly upon unpleasing subjects; such as the follies, vice, and crimes of classes of men or of individuals."

"Romantic Switzerland! thy scenes are traced With characters of strange wild loveliness, Beauty and desolation, side by side; Here lofty rocks uprise, where nature seems To dwell alone in silent majesty; Rob'd by the snow, her stately palace fram'd Of the white hills; towering in all their pride, The frost's gigantic mounds are lost in clouds, Like to vast castles rear'd in middle air. The ice has sculptur'd too strange imagery— Obelisks, columns, spires, fantastic piles; Some like the polish'd marble, others clear As the rock crystal, others sparkling with The hues that melt along the sunborn bow."

"And o'er them lowers destruction, high in air, Upon those jutting crags, whose rugged sides, Riven in fragments, and like ruins pil'd, Seem as that giants of those ancient days When earthborn creatures braved th' Olympic Gods, Those of whom fable tells, had torn away Rocks from their solid base, and with strong arm, Parted the mountains: there the avalanche hangs, Mighty, but tremulous; just a light breath Will loosen it from off its airy throne; Then down it hurls in wrath, like to the sound Of thunder amid storms, or as the voice Of rushing waters—death in its career."

"Methinks adieu Is cold, when uttered with aught else but tears."

"Hope, frail but lovely shadow ! thou dost come, Like a bright vision on our pathway here, Making the gloomy future beautiful, And gilding our horizon with a light, The fairest human eye can ever know."

"Once more my harp awakens ; once again, Tho' all unworthy be my hand to twine Th' etherial blossomings of poetry, I would call forth its numbers, yet would feel Its music fall like sunlight on my soul."

"... absence is The moonlight of affection ;"

"Alas ! alas ! too often conscience sleeps, When pleasure's syren numbers lull its rest.—"

"The leaves were gone from all, save where the pine Threw the wide shadow of its unchang'd green. I could not envy it that fadeless state.— Ah ! who would be the last, the only one That ruin spares—no ; if the blight must pass O'er all around, let it pass o'er me too !"

"'Tis soothing, oh ! most soothing to the heart, To rove 'mid scenes where once we have been blest! Each tree, each blossom, has a thrilling charm; They seem memorials of those happier hours : The very sigh that tells they are no more, Is sweet unto the spirit; former days, And former feelings, rise upon the soul, Dear as they once have been."

"... Oh! burning are the drops That wounded love will shed—like to the dew Falling from off the poison tree, the blight Still following the touch ;—ah ! other tears Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart."