Praise or blame he ever loves;
None in prose confess an error,
Yet we do so, void of terror,
In the Muses’ silent groves.
What I err’d in, what corrected,
What I suffer’d, what effected,
To this wreath as flow’rs belong;
For the aged, and the youthful,
And the vicious, and the truthful,
All are fair when viewed in song.
Similar Posts
I ONCE was fond of fools,
Then each one brought his toolsThe carpenter to play;The roof to strip first choosing,Another to supply,The wood as trestles using,To move it by-and-by,While here and there they ran,And knock’d against each other;To fret I soon began,My anger could not smother,So cried, ‘Get out, ye fools!’At this they were offendedThen each one took his tools,And so…
HALLO there! A glass!
If for drink go my shoes,I shall still have my feet.A maiden and wine,With sweet music and song,–I would they were mine,All life’s journey along!If I depart from this sad sphere,And leave a will behind me here,A suit at law will be preferr’d,But as for thanks,–the deuce a word!So ere I die, I squander all,And…
My neighbour, none can e’er deny,
Her shop is ever in mine eye,When working at my trade.To ring and chain I hammer thenThe wire of gold assay’d,And think the while: ‘For Kate, oh whenWill such a ring be made?’And when she takes her shutters down,Her shop at once invade,To buy and haggle, all the town,For all that’s there displayd.I file, and…
As a boy, reserved and naughty;
As a man, for action inclined;As a greybeard, fickle in mind.–Upon thy grave will people read:This was a very man, indeed!
THE bed of flowers
The beauteous snowdropsDroop o’er the plain.The crocus opensIts glowing bud,Like emeralds others,Others, like blood.With saucy gesturePrimroses flare,And roguish violets,Hidden with care;And whatsoeverThere stirs and strives,The Spring’s contented,If works and thrives.‘Mongst all the blossomsThat fairest are,My sweetheart’s sweetnessIs sweetest far;Upon me everHer glances light,My song they waken,My words make bright,An ever openAnd blooming mind,In sport, unsullied,In…
‘OH, would we were further! Oh, would we were home,
The band of the Sorceress sisters.They hitherward speed, and on finding us here,They’ll drink, though with toil we have fetch’d it, the beer,And leave us the pitchers all empty.’Thus speaking, the children with fear take to flight,When sudden an old man appears in their sight:‘Be quiet, child! children, be quiet!From hunting they come, and their…