Poets From England

"I saw the sunlit vale, and the pastoral fairy-tale; The sweet and bitter scent of the may drifted by; And never have I seen such a bright bewildering green. But it looked like a lie, Like a kindly meant lie."

"I have been young, and now am not too old; And I have seen the righteous forsaken, His health, his honour and his quality taken. This is not what we were formerly told."

"Life is a play acted by dying men, Where, if its heroes seem to foot it well And go light-tongued without grimace of pain, Death will be found anon. And who shall tell Which part was saddest, or in youth or age, When the tired actor stops and leaves the stage?"

"To-day's house makes to-morrow’s road; I knew these heaps of stone When they were walls of grace and might, The country’s honour, art’s delight That over fountain'd silence show'd Fame's final bastion."

"Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day, I sit in solitude and only hear Long silent laughters, murmurings of dismay, The lost intensities of hope and fear; In those old marshes yet the rifles lie, On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags, The very books I read are there—and I Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags Its wounded length from those sad streets of war Into green places here, that were my own; But now what once was mine is mine no more, I seek such neighbours here and I find none. With such strong gentleness and tireless will Those ruined houses seared themselves in me, Passionate I look for their dumb story still, And the charred stub outspeaks the living tree."

"The hop-poles stand in cones, The icy pond lurks under, The pole-tops steeple to the thrones Of stars, sound gulfs of wonder; But not the tallest there, ’tis said, Could fathom to this pond’s black bed."

"Then is not Death at watch Within those secret waters? What wants he but to catch Earth’s heedless sons and daughters? With but a crystal parapet Between, he has his engines set."

"Dark to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars? Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city. A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain."

"Cricket to us, like you, was more than play, It was a worship in the summer sun."

"Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing."

"Dance on this ball-floor thin and wan, Use him as though you love him; Court him, elude him, reel and pass, And let him hate you through the glass."

"This was my country, and it may be yet, But something flew between me and the sun."

"At Quincy's moat the squandering village ends, And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends Of all the village, two old dames that cling As close as any trueloves in the spring."

"And nigh this toppling reed, still as the dead The great pike lies, the murderous patriarch, Watching the waterpit shelving and dark Where through the plash his lithe bright vassals thread.... He on the sandbank lies, Sunning himself long hours With stony gorgon eyes: Westward the hot sun lowers."

"Here they went with smock and crook, Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade, Here they mudded out the brook And here their hatchet cleared the glade: Harvest-supper woke their wit, Huntsmen’s moon their wooings lit."

"Blackmore by the unremitted enmity of the wits, whom he provoked more by his virtue than his dulness, has been exposed to worse treatment than he deserved."

"No more of courts, of triumphs, or of arms, No more of Valour’s force, or Beauty's charms! The themes of vulgar lays with just disdain I leave unsung, the flocks, the amorous swain, The pleasures of the land, and terrors of the main. How abject, how inglorious 'tis to lie Grovelling in dust and darkness, when on high Empires immense, and rolling worlds of light, To range their heavenly scenes the muse invite!"

"Fame, which is the opinion the World expresses of any Man's excellent Endowments, is the Idol to which the finest spirits have, in all Ages, burnt their Incense."

"Like the bee that now is blown Honey-heavy on my hand, From the toppling tansy-throne In the green tempestuous land,— I’m in clover now, nor know Who made honey long ago."

"Man is naturally a proud Animal, and is fond of nothing more than the Breath of Fame to sooth his Vanity, and flatter his Self-Admiration."

"He came, and no man knew it; no man knew The wondrous boon to Scotland given; That there—beneath that grim and wintry blue— A glorious Poet, strong and true, Had newly dropp'd from heaven!"

"'Tis in the power of Poetry to insinuate into the inmost Recesses of the Mind, to touch any Spring that moves the Heart, to agitate the Soul with any sort of Affection, and transform it into any Shape or Posture it thinks fit."

"No royal palace was prepared for him; No silken courtiers slid from room to room, Gathering together in the gorgeous gloom Of purple hangings, drooping rich and dim;"

"For him no silver cressets shed their light, No eager joy-bells sounded through the night From city minster, or from village tower; No loud "hurrahs," sent from deep-chested men, Lifted the midnight mist from off the glen In celebration of his natal hour."

"Homer excels in Genius, Virgil in Judgment. Homer as conscious of his great Riches and Fullness entertains the Reader with great Splendor and Magnificent Profusion. Virgil's Dishes are well chosen, and tho not Rich and Numerous, yet serv'd up in great Order and Decency. Homer's Imagination is Strong, Vast and Boundless, an unexhausted Treasure of all kinds of Images; which made his Admirers and Commentators in all Ages affirm, that all sorts of Learning were to be found in his Poems. Virgil's Imagination is not so Capacious, tho' his Ideas are Clear, Noble, and of great Conformity to their Objects. Homer has more of the Poetical Inspiration. His Fire burns with extraordinary Heat and Vehemence, and often breaks out in Flashes, which Surprise, Dazle and Astonish the Reader: Virgil's is a clearer and a chaster Flame, which pleases and delights, but never blazes in that extraordinary and surprising manner. Methinks there is the same Difference between these two great Poets, as there is between their Heros. Homer's Hero, Achilles, is Vehement, Raging and Impetuous. He is always on Fire, and transported with an immoderate and resistless Fury, performs every where Miraculous Atchievements, and like a rapid Torrent overturns all things in his way. Æneas, the Hero of the Latine Poet, is a calm, Sedate Warriour. He do's not want Courage, neither has he any to spare: and the Poet might have allowed him a little more Fire, without overheating him. As for Invention, 'tis evident the Greek Poet has mightily the advantage. Nothing is more Rich and Fertile than Homer's Fancy. He is Full, Abundant, and Diffusive above all others. Virgil on the other hand is rather dry, than fruitful. 'Tis plain the Latin Poet in all his famous Æneis, has very little, if any Design of his own ..."

"The Inclinations of Men, in this their degenerate State, carry them with great Force to those voluptuous Objects, that please their Appetites and gratify their Senses; and which not only by their early Acquaintance and Familiarity, but as they are adapted to the prevailing Instincts of Nature, are more esteem'd and pursu'd than all other Satisfactions. As those inferior Enjoyments, that only affect the Organs of the Body are chiefly coveted, so next to these, that light and facetious Qualification of the Mind, that diverts the Hearers and is proper to produce Mirth and Alacrity, has, in all Ages, by the greatest Part of Mankind, been admir'd and applauded. No Productions of Human Understanding are receiv'd with such a general Pleasure and Approbation, as those that abound with Wit and Humour, on which the People set a greater Value, than on the wisest and most instructive Discourses. Hence a pleasant Man is always caress'd above a wise one, and Ridicule and Satyr, that entertain the Laughers, often put solid Reason and useful Science out of Countenance. The wanton Temper of the Nation has been gratify'd so long with the high Seasonings of Wit and Raillery in Writing and Conversation, that now almost all Things that are not accommodated to their Relish by a strong Infusion of those Ingredients, are rejected as the heavy and insipid Performances of Men of a plain Understanding and meer Masters of Sense."

"Come, swift-wing'd Fancy, airy maid, In varied, dazzling vest array'd, Inspire thy vot'ry's lay; Grant me thy flow'ry walks to tread, To range thy summer-painted mead, Or near thy fountain play. Now led by thy resistless hand, Or guided by thy fairy wand, O'er yet untrodden space; Or on thy pinions borne along, The bright Ideas' flitting throngs Pursue th' aerial race."

"Old farm-houses with their white faces Fly, and their ghosts have taken their places; Even the signposts like grim liars Point to losing brakes and briars."

"Is it a cosmic law, d'you think, that conceited men's hats are always too small?"

"Lord Southrop was, of course, eccentric in his views; and you never knew — here the housekeeper, with a despondent head-shake, paused, leaving unspoken the suggestion that a man who did not think or behave like other people might go mad at any moment."

"[S]he had a singular spaciousness of mind in which nothing little or mean could live."

"You may as well know, Philip — you'll soon find out, anyhow — the truth is she will flirt with any man that she doesn't actively dislike. She's so brimful of life she can't hold herself in — or she won't, rather; she says there's no harm in it, and she doesn't care if there is. Before her marriage she didn't go on in that way, but since it turned out badly she has been simply uncivilized on that point. And her being perfectly clear-headed about it makes it so much worse."

"Can she who shines so calm be fear? What poison pours she in slumber's ear?"

"I know, if anyone does — all research workers know — how much is missed that really matters because reports have to be written in officialese. They have to be, because a lot of us can't take anything seriously unless you make it dull for them."

"Trent read and re-read the pitiful message [a suicide note], so full of the awful egotism of grief."

"And as for that low, velvety voice of hers, if she asked me to murder my best friend I should have to do it on the spot."

"Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?"

"Say, lordly Man, of pow'rs possest, That no inferior creatures know; Say, can the mind with reason blest, Relentless fury show. To thy domain all beasts belong, Yet why so merciless thy sway? Why to the harmless, useful throng, Such cruelty display? Let all thy kind compassion share, Through Nature's universal frame; Whatever breathes thy kindred air, Or feels the vital flame."

"The field and wood, all bone-fed loam, Set up a roaring harvest-home."

"I recur here to my personal point about the tendency to miss what the title means; or even what the title says. An article like this is called subjective because it has no subject. In a rambling column, whether because it is personal or impersonal, it is permissible to introduce personal trifles about oneself, as well as about other people, so long as it is made sufficiently obvious that they are trifling. And I may remark in this connexion, or disconnexion, that I happen to have a very strong objection to that trick of missing the point of a story, or sometimes even the obvious sense of the very name of a story. I have sometimes had occasion to murmur meekly that those who endure the heavy labour of reading a book might possibly endure that of reading the title-page of a book. For there are more examples than may be imagined, in which earnest critics might solve many of their problems about what a book is, merely by discovering what it professes to be. … It is odd that one example occurred in my own case... in a book called The Man Who was Thursday."

"She [Mabel Manderson] uttered a little laugh of impatience. 'So you think he has been talking me round. No, that is not so. I am merely sure he did not do it. Ah! I see you think that absurd. But see how unreasonable you are, Mr Trent! Just now you were explaining to me quite sincerely that it was foolishness in you to have a certain suspicion of me after seeing me and being in my atmosphere, as you said.' Trent started in his chair. She glanced at him and went on: 'Now, I and my atmosphere are much obliged to you, but we must stand up for the rights of other atmospheres. I know a great deal more about Mr Marlowe's atmosphere than you know about mine even now. I saw him constantly for several years. I don't pretend to know all about him; but I do know that he is incapable of a crime of bloodshed. The idea of his planning a murder is as unthinkable to me as the idea of your picking a poor woman's pocket, Mr Trent.'"

"Can you understand the soul of a man who never hesitated to take steps that would have the effect of hoodwinking people, who would use every trick of the markets to mislead, and who was at the same time scrupulous never to utter a direct lie on the most insignificant matter? Manderson was like that, and he was not the only one. I suppose you might compare the state of mind to that of a soldier who is personally a truthful man, but who will stick at nothing to deceive the enemy. The rules of the game allow it; and the same may be said of business as many business men regard it. Only with them it is always wartime."

"I can only say that you must have totally renounced all trust in the operations of the human reason; an attitude which, while it is bad Christianity and also infernal nonsense, is oddly enough bad Positivism too, unless I misunderstand that system."

"'What do you mean by "a man like me"?' he [Philip Trent] demanded with a sort of fierceness. 'Do you take me for a man without any normal instincts? I don't say you impress people as a simple, transparent sort of character — what Mr Calvin Bunner calls a case of openwork; I don't say a stranger might not think you capable of wickedness, if there was good evidence for it: but I say that a man who, after seeing you and being in your atmosphere, could associate you with the kind of abomination I imagined is a fool — the kind of fool who is afraid to trust his senses.'"

"It was a weakness of Voltaire's To forget to say his prayers, And one which to his shame He never overcame."

"Between what matters and what seems to matter, how should the world we know judge wisely? When the scheming, indomitable brain of Sigsbee Manderson was scattered by a shot from an unknown hand, that world lost nothing worth a single tear; it gained something memorable in a harsh reminder of the vanity of such wealth as this dead man had piled up—without making one loyal friend to mourn him, without doing an act that could help his memory to the least honor. But when the news of his end came, it seemed to those living in the great vortices of business as if the earth, too, shuddered under a blow."

"George the Third Ought never to have occurred. One can only wonder At so grotesque a blunder."

"'Many young women of twenty-six in these days could face such an ordeal, I suppose. I have observed a sort of imitative hardness about the products of the higher education of women today which would carry them through anything, perhaps. I am not prepared to say it is a bad thing in the conditions of feminine life prevailing at present. Mabel, however, is not like that. She is as unlike that as she is unlike the simpering misses that used to surround me as a child. She has plenty of brains; she is full of character; her mind and her tastes are cultivated; but it is all mixed up' — Mr Cupples waved his hands in a vague gesture — 'with ideals of refinement and reservation and womanly mystery. I fear she is not a child of the age.'"

"John Stuart Mill, By a mighty effort of will, Overcame his natural bonhomie And wrote "Principles of Political Economy.""

"What I like about Clive Is that he is no longer alive. There is a great deal to be said For being dead."