Tag: British

“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

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

American British Poetry Edgar Alrbert Guest English poetry European Poetry United Kingdom

“He Who Serves” by Edgar Albert Guest

Post author By TDarris
Post date August 16, 2015
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He has not served who gathers gold,
Nor has he served, whose life is told
In selfish battles he has won,
Or deeds of skill that he has done;
But he has served who now and then
Has helped along his fellow men.

The world needs many men today;
Red-blooded men along life’s way,
With cheerful smiles and helping hands,
And with the faith that understands
The beauty of the simple deed
Which serves another’s hour of need.

Strong men to stand beside the weak,
Kind men to hear what others speak;
True men to keep our country’s laws
And guard its honor and its cause;
Men who will bravely play life’s game
Nor ask rewards of gold and fame.

Teach me to do the best I can
To help and cheer our fellow man;
Teach me to lose my selfish need
And glory in the larger deed
Which smoothes the road, and lights the day
For all who chance to come my way.

Tags 19th century, 20th century, America, american, american poet, American poetry, art, Arts, Britain, British, Edgar Albert Guest

18th Century British Poetry Celebration England English English poetry European Poetry UK United Kingodm

“The Lamb” by William Blake

Post author By TDarris
Post date July 31, 2015
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Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Tags 18th Century, art, Arts, Bible, Britain, British, British Poet, Catherine Blake, Celebration, Chrisianity, Christ, christian, Eighteenth Century, England, English, English Poet, Europa, Europe, Holy Bible, Jesus, Jesus Christ, Literature, messiah, poem, poet, Poetry, tdarris, The Lamb, UK, United Kingdom, William Blake

American British Poetry Edgar Alrbert Guest English poetry European Poetry

“Things Work Out” by Edgar Albert Guest

Post author By TDarris
Post date July 27, 2015
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Because it rains when we wish it wouldn’t,
Because men do what they often shouldn’t,
Because crops fail, and plans go wrong-
Some of us grumble all day long.
But somehow, in spite of the care and doubt,
It seems at last that things work out.

Because we lose where we hoped to gain,
Because we suffer a little pain,
Because we must work when we’d like to play-
Some of us whimper along life’s way.
But somehow, as day always follows the night,
Most of our troubles work out all right.

Because we cannot forever smile,
Because we must trudge in the dust awhile,
Because we think that the way is long-
Some of us whimper that life’s all wrong.
But somehow we live and our sky grows bright,
And everything seems to work out all right.

So bend to your trouble and meet your care,
For the clouds must break, and the sky grow fair.
Let the rain come down, as it must and will,
But keep on working and hoping still.
For in spite of the grumblers who stand about,
Somehow, it seems, all things work out.