"To Caroline" Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay? The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this-- Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead. — George Gordon, Lord Byron #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Canterbury Tales. The Manciple's Tale." THE PROLOGUE. WEET ye not where there stands a little town, Which that y-called is Bob-up-and-down, Under the Blee, in Canterbury way? There gan our Hoste for to jape and play, And saide, "Sirs, what? Dun is in the mire. Is there no man, for prayer nor for hire, That will awaken our fellow behind? A thief him might full rob and bind See how he nappeth, see, for cocke's bones, As he would falle from his horse at ones. Is that a Cook of London, with mischance? Do him come forth, he knoweth his penance; For he shall tell a tale, by my fay, Although it be not worth a bottle hay. Awake, thou Cook," quoth he; "God give thee sorrow What aileth thee to sleepe by the morrow? Hast thou had fleas all night, or art drunk? Or had thou with some quean all night y-swunk, So that thou mayest not hold up thine head?" The Cook, that was full pale and nothing red, Said to Host, "So God my soule bless, As there is fall'n on me such heaviness, I know not why, that me were lever sleep, Than the best gallon wine that is in Cheap." "Well," quoth the Manciple, "if it may do ease To thee, Sir Cook, and to no wight displease Which that here rideth in this company, And that our Host will of his courtesy, I will as now excuse thee of thy tale; For in good faith thy visage is full pale: Thine eyen daze, soothly as me thinketh, And well I wot, thy breath full soure stinketh, That sheweth well thou art not well disposed; Of me certain thou shalt not be y-glosed. See how he yawneth, lo, this drunken wight, As though he would us swallow anon right. Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father's kin; The devil of helle set his foot therein! Thy cursed breath infecte will us all: Fy! stinking swine, fy! foul may thee befall. Ah! take heed, Sirs, of this lusty man. Now, sweete Sir, will ye joust at the fan? Thereto, me thinketh, ye be well y-shape. I trow that ye have drunken wine of ape, And that is when men playe with a straw." And with this speech the Cook waxed all wraw, And on the Manciple he gan nod fast For lack of speech; and down his horse him cast, Where as he lay, till that men him up took. This was a fair chevachie of a cook: Alas! that he had held him by his ladle! And ere that he again were in the saddle There was great shoving bothe to and fro To lift him up, and muche care and woe, So unwieldy was this silly paled ghost. And to the Manciple then spake our Host: "Because that drink hath domination Upon this man, by my salvation I trow he lewedly will tell his tale. For were it wine, or old or moisty ale, That he hath drunk, he speaketh in his nose, And sneezeth fast, and eke he hath the pose He also hath to do more than enough To keep him on his capel out of the slough; And if he fall from off his capel eftsoon, Then shall we alle have enough to do'n In lifting up his heavy drunken corse. Tell on thy tale, of him make I no force. But yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice Thus openly to reprove him of his vice; Another day he will paraventure Reclaime thee, and bring thee to the lure; I mean, he speake will of smalle things, As for to pinchen at thy reckonings, That were not honest, if it came to prefe." Quoth the Manciple, "That were a great mischief; So might he lightly bring me in the snare. Yet had I lever paye for the mare Which he rides on, than he should with me strive. I will not wrathe him, so may I thrive) That that I spake, I said it in my bourde. And weet ye what? I have here in my gourd A draught of wine, yea, of a ripe grape, And right anon ye shall see a good jape. This Cook shall drink thereof, if that I may; On pain of my life he will not say nay." And certainly, to tellen as it was, Of this vessel the cook drank fast (alas! What needed it? he drank enough beforn), And when he hadde pouped in his horn, To the Manciple he took the gourd again. And of that drink the Cook was wondrous fain, And thanked him in such wise as he could. Then gan our Host to laughe wondrous loud, And said, "I see well it is necessary Where that we go good drink with us to carry; For that will turne rancour and disease T'accord and love, and many a wrong appease. O Bacchus, Bacchus, blessed be thy name, That so canst turnen earnest into game! Worship and thank be to thy deity. Of that mattere ye get no more of me. Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray." "Well, Sir," quoth he, "now hearken what I say." THE TALE. When Phoebus dwelled here in earth adown, As olde bookes make mentioun, He was the moste lusty bacheler Of all this world, and eke the best archer. He slew Python the serpent, as he lay Sleeping against the sun upon a day; And many another noble worthy deed He with his bow wrought, as men maye read. Playen he could on every minstrelsy, And singe, that it was a melody To hearen of his cleare voice the soun'. Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun, That with his singing walled the city, Could never singe half so well as he. Thereto he was the seemlieste man That is, or was since that the world began; What needeth it his features to descrive? For in this world is none so fair alive. He was therewith full fill'd of gentleness, Of honour, and of perfect worthiness. This Phoebus, that was flower of bach'lery, As well in freedom as in chivalry, For his disport, in sign eke of victory Of Python, so as telleth us the story, Was wont to bearen in his hand a bow. Now had this Phoebus in his house a crow, Which in a cage he foster'd many a day, And taught it speaken, as men teach a jay. White was this crow, as is a snow-white swan, And counterfeit the speech of every man He coulde, when he shoulde tell a tale. Therewith in all this world no nightingale Ne coulde by an hundred thousand deal Singe so wondrous merrily and well. Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife; Which that he loved more than his life. And night and day did ever his diligence Her for to please, and do her reverence: Save only, if that I the sooth shall sayn, Jealous he was, and would have kept her fain. For him were loth y-japed for to be; And so is every wight in such degree; But all for nought, for it availeth nought. A good wife, that is clean of work and thought, Should not be kept in none await certain: And truely the labour is in vain To keep a shrewe, for it will not be. This hold I for a very nicety, To spille labour for to keepe wives; Thus writen olde clerkes in their lives. But now to purpose, as I first began. This worthy Phoebus did all that he can To please her, weening, through such pleasance, And for his manhood and his governance, That no man should have put him from her grace; But, God it wot, there may no man embrace As to distrain a thing, which that nature Hath naturally set in a creature. Take any bird, and put it in a cage, And do all thine intent, and thy corage, To foster it tenderly with meat and drink Of alle dainties that thou canst bethink, And keep it all so cleanly as thou may; Although the cage of gold be never so gay, Yet had this bird, by twenty thousand fold, Lever in a forest, both wild and cold, Go eate wormes, and such wretchedness. For ever this bird will do his business T'escape out of his cage when that he may: His liberty the bird desireth aye. Let take a cat, and foster her with milk And tender flesh, and make her couch of silk, And let her see a mouse go by the wall, Anon she weiveth milk, and flesh, and all, And every dainty that is in that house, Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse. Lo, here hath kind her domination, And appetite flemeth discretion. A she-wolf hath also a villain's kind The lewedeste wolf that she may find, Or least of reputation, will she take In time when her lust to have a make. All these examples speak I by these men That be untrue, and nothing by women. For men have ever a lik'rous appetite On lower things to perform their delight Than on their wives, be they never so fair, Never so true, nor so debonair. Flesh is so newefangled, with mischance, That we can in no thinge have pleasance That souneth unto virtue any while. This Phoebus, which that thought upon no guile, Deceived was for all his jollity; For under him another hadde she, A man of little reputation, Nought worth to Phoebus in comparison. The more harm is; it happens often so, Of which there cometh muche harm and woe. And so befell, when Phoebus was absent, His wife anon hath for her leman sent. Her leman! certes that is a knavish speech. Forgive it me, and that I you beseech. The wise Plato saith, as ye may read, The word must needs accorde with the deed; If men shall telle properly a thing, The word must cousin be to the working. I am a boistous man, right thus I say. There is no difference truely Betwixt a wife that is of high degree (If of her body dishonest she be), And any poore wench, other than this (If it so be they worke both amiss), But, for the gentle is in estate above, She shall be call'd his lady and his love; And, for that other is a poor woman, She shall be call'd his wench and his leman: And God it wot, mine owen deare brother, Men lay the one as low as lies the other. Right so betwixt a titleless tyrant And an outlaw, or else a thief errant, The same I say, there is no difference (To Alexander told was this sentence), But, for the tyrant is of greater might By force of meinie for to slay downright, And burn both house and home, and make all plain, Lo, therefore is he call'd a capitain; And, for the outlaw hath but small meinie, And may not do so great an harm as he, Nor bring a country to so great mischief, Men calle him an outlaw or a thief. But, for I am a man not textuel, I will not tell of texts never a deal; I will go to my tale, as I began. When Phoebus' wife had sent for her leman, Anon they wroughten all their lust volage. This white crow, that hung aye in the cage, Beheld their work, and said never a word; And when that home was come Phoebus the lord, This crowe sung, "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!" "What? bird," quoth Phoebus, "what song sing'st thou now? Wert thou not wont so merrily to sing, That to my heart it was a rejoicing To hear thy voice? alas! what song is this?" "By God," quoth he, "I singe not amiss. Phoebus," quoth he, "for all thy worthiness, For all thy beauty, and all thy gentleness, For all thy song, and all thy minstrelsy, For all thy waiting, bleared is thine eye With one of little reputation, Not worth to thee, as in comparison, The mountance of a gnat, so may I thrive; For on thy bed thy wife I saw him swive." What will ye more? the crow anon him told, By sade tokens, and by wordes bold, How that his wife had done her lechery, To his great shame and his great villainy; And told him oft, he saw it with his eyen. This Phoebus gan awayward for to wrien; Him thought his woeful hearte burst in two. His bow he bent, and set therein a flo, And in his ire he hath his wife slain; This is th' effect, there is no more to sayn. For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy, Both harp and lute, gitern and psaltery; And eke he brake his arrows and his bow; And after that thus spake he to the crow. "Traitor," quoth he, "with tongue of scorpion, Thou hast me brought to my confusion; Alas that I was wrought! why n'ere I dead? O deare wife, O gem of lustihead, That wert to me so sad, and eke so true, Now liest thou dead, with face pale of hue, Full guilteless, that durst I swear y-wis! O rakel hand, to do so foul amiss O troubled wit, O ire reckeless, That unadvised smit'st the guilteless! O wantrust, full of false suspicion! Where was thy wit and thy discretion? O! every man beware of rakelness, Nor trow no thing withoute strong witness. Smite not too soon, ere that ye weete why, And be advised well and sickerly Ere ye do any execution Upon your ire for suspicion. Alas! a thousand folk hath rakel ire Foully fordone, and brought them in the mire. Alas! for sorrow I will myself slee And to the crow, "O false thief," said he, "I will thee quite anon thy false tale. Thou sung whilom like any nightingale, Now shalt thou, false thief, thy song foregon, And eke thy white feathers every one, Nor ever in all thy life shalt thou speak; Thus shall men on a traitor be awreak. Thou and thine offspring ever shall be blake, Nor ever sweete noise shall ye make, But ever cry against tempest and rain, In token that through thee my wife is slain." And to the crow he start, and that anon, And pull'd his white feathers every one, And made him black, and reft him all his song, And eke his speech, and out at door him flung Unto the devil, which I him betake; And for this cause be all crowes blake. Lordings, by this ensample, I you pray, Beware, and take keep what that ye say; Nor telle never man in all your life How that another man hath dight his wife; He will you hate mortally certain. Dan Solomon, as wise clerkes sayn, Teacheth a man to keep his tongue well; But, as I said, I am not textuel. But natheless thus taughte me my dame; "My son, think on the crow, in Godde's name. My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend; A wicked tongue is worse than is a fiend: My sone, from a fiend men may them bless. My son, God of his endeless goodness Walled a tongue with teeth, and lippes eke, For man should him advise, what he speak. My son, full often for too muche speech Hath many a man been spilt, as clerkes teach; But for a little speech advisedly Is no man shent, to speak generally. My son, thy tongue shouldest thou restrain At alle time, but when thou dost thy pain To speak of God in honour and prayere. The firste virtue, son, if thou wilt lear, Is to restrain and keepe well thy tongue; Thus learne children, when that they be young. My son, of muche speaking evil advis'd, Where lesse speaking had enough suffic'd, Cometh much harm; thus was me told and taught; In muche speeche sinne wanteth not. Wost thou whereof a rakel tongue serveth? Right as a sword forcutteth and forcarveth An arm in two, my deare son, right so A tongue cutteth friendship all in two. A jangler is to God abominable. Read Solomon, so wise and honourable; Read David in his Psalms, and read Senec'. My son, speak not, but with thine head thou beck, Dissimule as thou wert deaf, if that thou hear A jangler speak of perilous mattere. The Fleming saith, and learn if that thee lest, That little jangling causeth muche rest. My son, if thou no wicked word hast said, Thee thar not dreade for to be bewray'd; But he that hath missaid, I dare well sayn, He may by no way call his word again. Thing that is said is said, and forth it go'th, Though him repent, or be he ne'er so loth; He is his thrall, to whom that he hath said A tale, of which he is now evil apaid. My son, beware, and be no author new Of tidings, whether they be false or true; Whereso thou come, amonges high or low, Keep well thy tongue, and think upon the crow." — Geoffrey Chaucer #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"On Music" When through life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh! how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts that long have slept, Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes that long have wept. Like the gale, that sighs along Beds of oriental flowers, Is the grateful breath of song, That once was heard in happier hours. Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on, Though the flowers have sunk in death; So, when pleasure's dream is gone, Its memory lives in Music's breath. Music, oh, how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! Why should Feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are even more false than they; Oh! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray. — Thomas Moore #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"To Wordsworth" Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know That things depart which never may return: Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow, Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn. These common woes I feel. One loss is mine Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore. Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar: Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood Above the blind and battling multitude: In honoured poverty thy voice did weave Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,-- Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve, Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be. — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Elegy to the Memory of Richard Boyle, Esq." NEAR yon bleak mountain's dizzy height, That hangs o'er AVON's silent wave; By the pale Crescent's glimm'ring light, I sought LORENZO's lonely grave. O'er the long grass the silv'ry dew, Soft Twilight's tears spontaneous shone; And the dank bough of baneful yew Supply'd the place of sculptured stone. Oft, as my trembling steps drew near, The aëry voice of FANCY gave The plaint of GENIUS to mine ear, That, lingering, murmur'd on his grave. "Cold is that heart, where honour glow'd, And Friendship's flame sublimely shone, And clos'd that eye where Pity flow'd, For ev'ry suff'ring but HIS OWN. "That form where youth and grace conspir'd, To captivate admiring eyes, No more belov'd, no more admir'd, A torpid mass neglected lies. "Mute is the music of that tongue, Once tuneful as the voice of love, When ORPHEUS, by his magic song, Taught trees, and flinty rocks to move. "Oft shall the pensive MUSE be found, Sprinkling with flow'rs his mould'ring clay; While soft-eyed SORROW wand'ring round, Shall pluck intruding weeds away." Sad victim of the sordid mind, That doom'd THEE to an early grave; Ne'er shall HER breast that pity find, Which thy forgiveness nobly gave! Thou, who, when SORROW'S icy hand Forbad the healthsome pulse to flow, Obedient to HER stern command, With meek submission bow'd thee low! And when thy faded cheek proclaim'd The thorn that rankled in thy breast, Thy steady soul that pride maintain'd, Which marks the godlike mind distress'd! Nor was thy mental strength subdu'd, When HOPE's last ling'ring shadows fled, Unchang'd, thy dauntless spirit view'd The dreary confines of the dead! And when thy penetrating mind, Life's thorny maze presum'd to scan, In ev'ry path condemn'd to find "The low ingratitude of man." Indignant would'st thou turn away, And smiling raise thy languid eye, And oft thy feeble voice would say, "TO ME 'TIS HAPPINESS TO DIE." And tho' thy FRIEND, I with skilful art, To heal thy woes, each balm apply'd; Tho' the fine feelings of his heart, Nor cost nor studious care deny'd! He saw the fatal hour draw near, He saw THEE fading to the grave; He gave his last kind gift, A TEAR, And mourn'd the worth he could not save. Nor could the ruthless breath of FATE Snatch from thy grave the tender sigh; Nor a relentless monster's hate Impede thy passage to the sky. And tho' no kindred tears were shed, No tribute to thy memory giv'n; Sublime in death, thy spirit fled, To seek its best reward IN HEAVEN! — Robinson #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho