Tag: British Poetry

“Rule Britannia” by James Thomson (1700 – 1748)

Post author By TDarris
Post date September 11, 2018
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after John Patoun, oil on canvas, feigned oval, (circa 1746)

“Rule Britannia”

BY JAMES THOMSON

When Britain first, at heaven’s command,

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sung this strain—

“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;

Britons never will be slaves.”

The nations, not so blest as thee,

Must in their turns to tyrants fall;

While thou shalt flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.

“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;

Britons never will be slaves.”

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;

As the loud blast that tears the skies

Serves but to root thy native oak.

“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;

Britons never will be slaves.”

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame;

All their attempts to bend thee down,

Will but arouse thy generous flame,

But work their woe and thy renown.

“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;

Britons never will be slaves.”

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All thine shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine.

“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;

Britons never will be slaves.”

The Muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair:

Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned,

And manly hearts to guard the fair.

“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;

Britons never will be slaves.”

Source: The Longman Anthology of Poetry (2006)

Tags Augustan, Britain, British, British Poetry, European Poetry, James Thomson, Poetry

19th century American American Poetry British Poetry England English English poetry European Poetry Literature Poetry UK Uncategorized United Kingodm

“What the Goose-Girl Said About the Dean” by EDITH SITWELL (1887 – 1964)

Post author By TDarris
Post date September 7, 2018
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SAG52936 Portrait of Edith Sitwell (1887-1964), 1915 (oil on canvas) by Fry, Roger Eliot (1866-1934) oil on canvas © Sheffield Galleries and Museums Trust, UK English, out of copyright

What the Goose-Girl Said About the Dean

BY EDITH SITWELL

Turn again, turn again,

Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane.

Bright wooden waves of people creak

From houses built with coloured straws

Of heat; Dean Pasppus’ long nose snores

Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak.

The wooden waves of people creak

Through the fields all water-sleek.

And in among the straws of light

Those bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight.

Whence he lies snoring like the moon

Clownish-white all afternoon.

Beneath the trees’ arsenical

Sharp woodwind tunes; heretical—

Blown like the wind’s mane

(Creaking woodenly again).

His wandering thoughts escape like geese

Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase,

And clouds of wool join the bright race

For scattered old simplicities.

from Coterie, 1919

Tags British Poetry, English Poetry, poem, poet, Poetry, United Kingdom, women poets

Uncategorized

“To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet (1612 – 1672)

Post author By TDarris
Post date January 3, 2016
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If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;	
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more we may live ever.

Tags anne, anne bradstreet, art, Arts, bradstreet, Britain, british poem, British Poet, British Poetry, crown, England, English, english poem, english poems, English Poet, English Poetry, Family, female, female poet, husband, husband and wife, Literature, marriage, marry, northampton, poem, poems, poet, Poetry, puritan, queen, religion, royal, royal family, spouse, United Kingdom, wife, woman, women

18th Century Alexander Pope Uncategorized

“Ode on Solitude” by Alexander Pope

Post author By TDarris
Post date January 2, 2016
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Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

Tags 18th Century, Alexander, Alexander Pope, art, Arts, bitrish poet, British, British Poetry, English, English Poet, English Poetry, Literature, poem, poems, poet, Poetry, Pope, Write, Writer, writing

18th Century Alexander Pope British Poetry Christian Christianity Religion and Spirituality Uncategorized

“The Christian to His Dying Soul”

Post author By TDarris
Post date January 1, 2016
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Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

Tags 18th Century, Alexander, Alexander Pope, Arts, British, British Poet, British Poetry, England, English Poetry, Literature, Pope, Write, Writer

British Poetry English poetry European Poetry Romantic Era Romanticisim William Blake

“A Poison Tree” by William Blake

Post author By TDarris
Post date May 3, 2015
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I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears:

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,

When the night had veild the pole;

In the morning glad I see;

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Tags anger, Britain, British, British Poet, British Poetry, death, deceit, enemies, enemy, English, English Poet, English Poetry, foe, foes, pain, rhymed stanza, wrath

“Rule Britannia”

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What the Goose-Girl Said About the Dean

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