"Song To A Fair Young Lady Going Out Of Town In The Spring" Ask not the cause why sullen spring So long delays her flow'rs to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year? Chloris is gone; and Fate provides To make it spring where she resides. Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair, To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah, how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure! Great god of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of ev'ry land? Where thou hadst plac'd such pow'r before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more. When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs, And ev'ry life but mine recall. I only am by love design'd To be the victim for mankind. — John Dryden #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Prince Athanase. a Fragment" PART 1. There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel, Had grown quite weak and gray before his time; Nor any could the restless griefs unravel Which burned within him, withering up his prime And goading him, like fiends, from land to land. Not his the load of any secret crime, For nought of ill his heart could understand, But pity and wild sorrow for the same;-- Not his the thirst for glory or command, Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame; Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast, And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame, Had left within his soul their dark unrest: Nor what religion fables of the grave Feared he,--Philosophy's accepted guest. For none than he a purer heart could have, Or that loved good more for itself alone; Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave. What sorrow, strange, and shadowy, and unknown, Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind?-- If with a human sadness he did groan, He had a gentle yet aspiring mind; Just, innocent, with varied learning fed; And such a glorious consolation find In others' joy, when all their own is dead: He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief, And yet, unlike all others, it is said That from such toil he never found relief. Although a child of fortune and of power, Of an ancestral name the orphan chief, His soul had wedded Wisdom, and her dower Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate Apart from men, as in a lonely tower, Pitying the tumult of their dark estate.-- Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate Those false opinions which the harsh rich use To blind the world they famish for their pride; Nor did he hold from any man his dues, But, like a steward in honest dealings tried, With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise, His riches and his cares he did divide. Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise, What he dared do or think, though men might start, He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes; Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart, And to his many friends--all loved him well-- Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart, If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell; If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes He neither spurned nor hated--though with fell And mortal hate their thousand voices rose, They passed like aimless arrows from his ear-- Nor did his heart or mind its portal close To those, or them, or any, whom life's sphere May comprehend within its wide array. What sadness made that vernal spirit sere?-- He knew not. Though his life, day after day, Was failing like an unreplenished stream, Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay, Through which his soul, like Vesper's serene beam Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds, Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods; And through his sleep, and o'er each waking hour, Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes, Were driven within him by some secret power, Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar, Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower to tower O'er castled mountains borne, when tempest's war Is levied by the night-contending winds, And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear;-- Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends Which wake and feed an everliving woe,-- What was this grief, which ne'er in other minds A mirror found,--he knew not--none could know; But on whoe'er might question him he turned The light of his frank eyes, as if to show He knew not of the grief within that burned, But asked forbearance with a mournful look; Or spoke in words from which none ever learned The cause of his disquietude; or shook With spasms of silent passion; or turned pale: So that his friends soon rarely undertook To stir his secret pain without avail;-- For all who knew and loved him then perceived That there was drawn an adamantine veil Between his heart and mind,--both unrelieved Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife. Some said that he was mad, others believed That memories of an antenatal life Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell; And others said that such mysterious grief From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell On souls like his, which owned no higher law Than love; love calm, steadfast, invincible By mortal fear or supernatural awe; And others,--''Tis the shadow of a dream Which the veiled eye of Memory never saw, 'But through the soul's abyss, like some dark stream Through shattered mines and caverns underground, Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no beam 'Of joy may rise, but it is quenched and drowned In the dim whirlpools of this dream obscure; Soon its exhausted waters will have found 'A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, O Athanase!--in one so good and great, Evil or tumult cannot long endure. So spake they: idly of another's state Babbling vain words and fond philosophy; This was their consolation; such debate Men held with one another; nor did he, Like one who labours with a human woe, Decline this talk: as if its theme might be Another, not himself, he to and fro Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit; And none but those who loved him best could know That which he knew not, how it galled and bit His weary mind, this converse vain and cold; For like an eyeless nightmare grief did sit Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend Which clenched him if he stirred with deadlier hold;-- And so his grief remained--let it remain--untold. [1] PART 2. FRAGMENT 1. Prince Athanase had one beloved friend, An old, old man, with hair of silver white, And lips where heavenly smiles would hang and blend With his wise words; and eyes whose arrowy light Shone like the reflex of a thousand minds. He was the last whom superstition's blight Had spared in Greece--the blight that cramps and blinds,-- And in his olive bower at Oenoe Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who finds A fertile island in the barren sea, One mariner who has survived his mates Many a drear month in a great ship--so he With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates Of ancient lore, there fed his lonely being:-- 'The mind becomes that which it contemplates,'-- And thus Zonoras, by for ever seeing Their bright creations, grew like wisest men; And when he heard the crash of nations fleeing A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, O sacred Hellas! many weary years He wandered, till the path of Laian's glen Was grass-grown--and the unremembered tears Were dry in Laian for their honoured chief, Who fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem spears:-- And as the lady looked with faithful grief From her high lattice o'er the rugged path, Where she once saw that horseman toil, with brief And blighting hope, who with the news of death Struck body and soul as with a mortal blight, She saw between the chestnuts, far beneath, An old man toiling up, a weary wight; And soon within her hospitable hall She saw his white hairs glittering in the light Of the wood fire, and round his shoulders fall; And his wan visage and his withered mien, Yet calm and gentle and majestical. And Athanase, her child, who must have been Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed In patient silence. FRAGMENT 2. Such was Zonoras; and as daylight finds One amaranth glittering on the path of frost, When autumn nights have nipped all weaker kinds, Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tossed, Shone truth upon Zonoras; and he filled From fountains pure, nigh overgrown and lost, The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild. And sweet and subtle talk they evermore, The pupil and the master, shared; until, Sharing that undiminishable store, The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran His teacher, and did teach with native skill Strange truths and new to that experienced man; Still they were friends, as few have ever been Who mark the extremes of life's discordant span. So in the caverns of the forest green, Or on the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen By summer woodmen; and when winter's roar Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war, The Balearic fisher, driven from shore, Hanging upon the peaked wave afar, Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam, Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam, Whilst all the constellations of the sky Seemed reeling through the storm...They did but seem-- For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by, And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, And far o'er southern waves, immovably Belted Orion hangs--warm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm.-- 'O, summer eve! with power divine, bestowing 'On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness, Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm 'Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madness, Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale,-- And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness,-- 'And the far sighings of yon piny dale Made vocal by some wind we feel not here.-- I bear alone what nothing may avail 'To lighten--a strange load!'--No human ear Heard this lament; but o'er the visage wan Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran, Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake, Glassy and dark.--And that divine old man Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest-- And with a calm and measured voice he spake, And, with a soft and equal pressure, pressed That cold lean hand:--'Dost thou remember yet When the curved moon then lingering in the west 'Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one year--sure thou dost not forget-- 'Then Plato's words of light in thee and me Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east, For we had just then read--thy memory 'Is faithful now--the story of the feast; And Agathon and Diotima seemed From death and dark forgetfulness released...' FRAGMENT 3. And when the old man saw that on the green Leaves of his opening ... a blight had lighted He said: 'My friend, one grief alone can wean A gentle mind from all that once delighted:-- Thou lovest, and thy secret heart is laden With feelings which should not be unrequited.' And Athanase ... then smiled, as one o'erladen With iron chains might smile to talk (?) of bands Twined round her lover's neck by some blithe maiden, And said... FRAGMENT 4. 'Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings From slumber, as a sphered angel's child, Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings, Stands up before its mother bright and mild, Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems-- So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove Waxed green--and flowers burst forth like starry beams;-- The grass in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst under the waves serene:-- How many a one, though none be near to love, Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirror--or the spring's young minions, The winged leaves amid the copses green;-- How many a spirit then puts on the pinions Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, And his own steps--and over wide dominions Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, More fleet than storms--the wide world shrinks below, When winter and despondency are past. FRAGMENT 5. 'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase Passed the white Alps--those eagle-baffling mountains Slept in their shrouds of snow;--beside the ways The waterfalls were voiceless--for their fountains Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, Or by the curdling winds--like brazen wings Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow-- Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung And filled with frozen light the chasms below. Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung Under their load of -- ... ... Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down From the gray deserts of wide air, Athanase; and o'er his mien (?) was thrown The shadow of that scene, field after field, Purple and dim and wide... FRAGMENT 6. Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Thousands who thirst for thine ambrosial dew;-- Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair The shadow of thy moving wings imbue Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear Beauty like some light robe;--thou ever soarest Among the towers of men, and as soft air In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest That which from thee they should implore:--the weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts The strong have broken--yet where shall any seek A garment whom thou clothest not? the darts Of the keen winter storm, barbed with frost, Which, from the everlasting snow that parts The Alps from Heaven, pierce some traveller lost In the wide waved interminable snow Ungarmented,... ANOTHER FRAGMENT (A) Yes, often when the eyes are cold and dry, And the lips calm, the Spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the blood of agony Trembling in drops on the discoloured skin Of those who love their kind and therefore perish In ghastly torture--a sweet medicine Of peace and sleep are tears, and quietly Them soothe from whose uplifted eyes they fall But... ANOTHER FRAGMENT (B) Her hair was brown, her sphered eyes were brown, And in their dark and liquid moisture swam, Like the dim orb of the eclipsed moon; Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came The light from them, as when tears of delight Double the western planet's serene flame. — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Elegy on Newstead Abbey" "It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds." Ossian. NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome! Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S pride! Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall, Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord, In grim array, the crimson cross demand; Or gay assemble round the festive board, Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time; Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime. But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief; His feudal realm in other regions lay: In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, Retiring from the garish blaze of day. Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, The monk abjur'd a world, he ne'er could view; Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting, solace found, Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew. A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Where Sherwood's outlaws, once, were wont to prowl; And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl. Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew, The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew, Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray. Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend, Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend, Or matin orisons to Mary paid. Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield; Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed: Religion's charter, their protecting shield, Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls, And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; Another HENRY the kind gift recalls, And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer; He drives them exiles from their blest abode, To roam a dreary world, in deep despair-- No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain, Shakes with the martial music's novel din! The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, High crested banners wave thy walls within. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increas'd alarms. An abbey once, a regal fortress now, Encircled by insulting rebel powers; War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow, And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers. Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, Though oft repuls'd, by guile o'ercomes the brave; His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege, Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. Not unaveng'd the raging Baron yields; The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, And days of glory, yet, for him remain. Still, in that hour, the warrior wish'd to strew Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave; But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling, she snatch'd him from th' unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel; For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life, To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND fell. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven, Such victims wallow on the gory ground. There many a pale and ruthless Robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Ransack'd resign, perforce, their mortal mould: From ruffian fangs, escape not e'en the dead, Racked from repose, in search for buried gold. Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er; Silence again resumes her awful sway, And sable Horror guards the massy door. Here, Desolation holds her dreary court: What satellites declare her dismal reign! Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane. Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies. With storms she welcomes his expiring groans; Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath; Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones, Loathing the offering of so dark a death. The legal Ruler now resumes the helm, He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state; Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells, Howling, resign their violated nest; Again, the Master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return; Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale, And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float, Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake; What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake; Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah happy days! too happy to endure! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure; Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed; Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another Chief impels the foaming steed, Another Crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line, Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers; Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep; Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers; These, these he views, and views them but to weep. Yet are his tears no emblem of regret: Cherish'd Affection only bids them flow; Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget, But warm his bosom, with impassion'd glow. Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes, Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great; Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of Fate. Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine, And bless thy future, as thy former day. — George Gordon, Lord Byron #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Ode to Naples" EPODE 1a. I stood within the City disinterred; And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls Of spirits passing through the streets; and heard The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals Thrill through those roofless halls; The oracular thunder penetrating shook The listening soul in my suspended blood; I felt that Earth out of her deep heart spoke-- I felt, but heard not:--through white columns glowed The isle-sustaining ocean-flood, A plane of light between two heavens of azure! Around me gleamed many a bright sepulchre Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his pleasure Were to spare Death, had never made erasure; But every living lineament was clear As in the sculptor's thought; and there The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy, and pine, Like winter leaves o'ergrown by moulded snow, Seemed only not to move and grow Because the crystal silence of the air Weighed on their life; even as the Power divine Which then lulled all things, brooded upon mine. EPODE 2a. Then gentle winds arose With many a mingled close Of wild Aeolian sound, and mountain-odours keen; And where the Baian ocean Welters with airlike motion, Within, above, around its bowers of starry green, Moving the sea-flowers in those purple caves, Even as the ever stormless atmosphere Floats o'er the Elysian realm, It bore me, like an Angel, o'er the waves Of sunlight, whose swift pinnace of dewy air No storm can overwhelm. I sailed, where ever flows Under the calm Serene A spirit of deep emotion From the unknown graves Of the dead Kings of Melody. Shadowy Aornos darkened o'er the helm The horizontal aether; Heaven stripped bare Its depth over Elysium, where the prow Made the invisible water white as snow; From that Typhaean mount, Inarime, There streamed a sunbright vapour, like the standard Of some aethereal host; Whilst from all the coast, Louder and louder, gathering round, there wandered Over the oracular woods and divine sea Prophesyings which grew articulate-- They seize me--I must speak them!--be they fate! STROPHE 1. Naples! thou Heart of men which ever pantest Naked, beneath the lidless eye of Heaven! Elysian City, which to calm enchantest The mutinous air and sea! they round thee, even As sleep round Love, are driven! Metropolis of a ruined Paradise Long lost, late won, and yet but half regained! Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice Which armed Victory offers up unstained To Love, the flower-enchained! Thou which wert once, and then didst cease to be, Now art, and henceforth ever shalt be, free, If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can avail,-- Hail, hail, all hail! STROPHE 2. Thou youngest giant birth Which from the groaning earth Leap'st, clothed in armour of impenetrable scale! Last of the Intercessors! Who 'gainst the Crowned Transgressors Pleadest before God's love! Arrayed in Wisdom's mail, Wave thy lightning lance in mirth Nor let thy high heart fail, Though from their hundred gates the leagued Oppressors With hurried legions move! Hail, hail, all hail! ANTISTROPHE 1a. What though Cimmerian Anarchs dare blaspheme Freedom and thee? thy shield is as a mirror To make their blind slaves see, and with fierce gleam To turn his hungry sword upon the wearer; A new Actaeon's error Shall theirs have been--devoured by their own hounds! Be thou like the imperial Basilisk Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds! Gaze on Oppression, till at that dread risk Aghast she pass from the Earth's disk: Fear not, but gaze--for freemen mightier grow, And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe:-- If Hope, and Truth, and Justice may avail, Thou shalt be great--All hail! ANTISTROPHE 2a. From Freedom's form divine, From Nature's inmost shrine, Strip every impious gawd, rend Error veil by veil; O'er Ruin desolate, O'er Falsehood's fallen state, Sit thou sublime, unawed; be the Destroyer pale! And equal laws be thine, And winged words let sail, Freighted with truth even from the throne of God: That wealth, surviving fate, Be thine.--All hail! ANTISTROPHE 1b. Didst thou not start to hear Spain's thrilling paean From land to land re-echoed solemnly, Till silence became music? From the Aeaean To the cold Alps, eternal Italy Starts to hear thine! The Sea Which paves the desert streets of Venice laughs In light, and music; widowed Genoa wan By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs, Murmuring, 'Where is Doria?' fair Milan, Within whose veins long ran The viper's palsying venom, lifts her heel To bruise his head. The signal and the seal (If Hope and Truth and Justice can avail) Art thou of all these hopes.--O hail! ANTISTROPHE 2b. Florence! beneath the sun, Of cities fairest one, Blushes within her bower for Freedom's expectation: From eyes of quenchless hope Rome tears the priestly cope, As ruling once by power, so now by admiration,-- An athlete stripped to run From a remoter station For the high prize lost on Philippi's shore:-- As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did avail, So now may Fraud and Wrong! O hail! EPODE 1b. Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born Forms Arrayed against the ever-living Gods? The crash and darkness of a thousand storms Bursting their inaccessible abodes Of crags and thunder-clouds? See ye the banners blazoned to the day, Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride? Dissonant threats kill Silence far away, The serene Heaven which wraps our Eden wide With iron light is dyed; The Anarchs of the North lead forth their legions Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreating; An hundred tribes nourished on strange religions And lawless slaveries,--down the aereal regions Of the white Alps, desolating, Famished wolves that bide no waiting, Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory, Trampling our columned cities into dust, Their dull and savage lust On Beauty's corse to sickness satiating-- They come! The fields they tread look black and hoary With fire--from their red feet the streams run gory! EPODE 2b. Great Spirit, deepest Love! Which rulest and dost move All things which live and are, within the Italian shore; Who spreadest Heaven around it, Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it; Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's western floor; Spirit of beauty! at whose soft command The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison From the Earth's bosom chill; Oh, bid those beams be each a blinding brand Of lightning! bid those showers be dews of poison! Bid the Earth's plenty kill! Bid thy bright Heaven above, Whilst light and darkness bound it, Be their tomb who planned To make it ours and thine! Or, with thine harmonizing ardours fill And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone horizon Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with fire-- Be man's high hope and unextinct desire The instrument to work thy will divine! Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes from leopards, And frowns and fears from thee, Would not more swiftly flee Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian shepherds.-- Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine Thou yieldest or withholdest, oh, let be This city of thy worship ever free! — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Devil's Walk. a Ballad" Once, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose, With care his sweet person adorning, He put on his Sunday clothes. He drew on a boot to hide his hoof, He drew on a glove to hide his claw, His horns were concealed by a Bras Chapeau, And the Devil went forth as natty a Beau As Bond-street ever saw. He sate him down, in London town, Before earth's morning ray; With a favourite imp he began to chat, On religion, and scandal, this and that, Until the dawn of day. And then to St. James's Court he went, And St. Paul's Church he took on his way; He was mighty thick with every Saint, Though they were formal and he was gay. The Devil was an agriculturist, And as bad weeds quickly grow, In looking over his farm, I wist, He wouldn't find cause for woe. He peeped in each hole, to each chamber stole, His promising live-stock to view; Grinning applause, he just showed them his claws, And they shrunk with affright from his ugly sight, Whose work they delighted to do. Satan poked his red nose into crannies so small One would think that the innocents fair, Poor lambkins! were just doing nothing at all But settling some dress or arranging some ball, But the Devil saw deeper there. A Priest, at whose elbow the Devil during prayer Sate familiarly, side by side, Declared that, if the Tempter were there, His presence he would not abide. Ah! ah! thought Old Nick, that's a very stale trick, For without the Devil, O favourite of Evil, In your carriage you would not ride. Satan next saw a brainless King, Whose house was as hot as his own; Many Imps in attendance were there on the wing, They flapped the pennon and twisted the sting, Close by the very Throne. Ah! ah! thought Satan, the pasture is good, My Cattle will here thrive better than others; They dine on news of human blood, They sup on the groans of the dying and dead, And supperless never will go to bed; Which will make them fat as their brothers. Fat as the Fiends that feed on blood, Fresh and warm from the fields of Spain, Where Ruin ploughs her gory way, Where the shoots of earth are nipped in the bud, Where Hell is the Victor's prey, Its glory the meed of the slain. Fat--as the Death-birds on Erin's shore, That glutted themselves in her dearest gore, And flitted round Castlereagh, When they snatched the Patriot's heart, that HIS grasp Had torn from its widow's maniac clasp, --And fled at the dawn of day. Fat--as the Reptiles of the tomb, That riot in corruption's spoil, That fret their little hour in gloom, And creep, and live the while. Fat as that Prince's maudlin brain, Which, addled by some gilded toy, Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again Cries for it, like a humoured boy. For he is fat,--his waistcoat gay, When strained upon a levee day, Scarce meets across his princely paunch; And pantaloons are like half-moons Upon each brawny haunch. How vast his stock of calf! when plenty Had filled his empty head and heart, Enough to satiate foplings twenty, Could make his pantaloon seams start. The Devil (who sometimes is called Nature), For men of power provides thus well, Whilst every change and every feature, Their great original can tell. Satan saw a lawyer a viper slay, That crawled up the leg of his table, It reminded him most marvellously Of the story of Cain and Abel. The wealthy yeoman, as he wanders His fertile fields among, And on his thriving cattle ponders, Counts his sure gains, and hums a song; Thus did the Devil, through earth walking, Hum low a hellish song. For they thrive well whose garb of gore Is Satan's choicest livery, And they thrive well who from the poor Have snatched the bread of penury, And heap the houseless wanderer's store On the rank pile of luxury. The Bishops thrive, though they are big; The Lawyers thrive, though they are thin; For every gown, and every wig, Hides the safe thrift of Hell within. Thus pigs were never counted clean, Although they dine on finest corn; And cormorants are sin-like lean, Although they eat from night to morn. Oh! why is the Father of Hell in such glee, As he grins from ear to ear? Why does he doff his clothes joyfully, As he skips, and prances, and flaps his wing, As he sidles, leers, and twirls his sting, And dares, as he is, to appear? A statesman passed--alone to him, The Devil dare his whole shape uncover, To show each feature, every limb, Secure of an unchanging lover. At this known sign, a welcome sight, The watchful demons sought their King, And every Fiend of the Stygian night, Was in an instant on the wing. Pale Loyalty, his guilt-steeled brow, With wreaths of gory laurel crowned: The hell-hounds, Murder, Want and Woe, Forever hungering, flocked around; From Spain had Satan sought their food, 'Twas human woe and human blood! Hark! the earthquake's crash I hear,-- Kings turn pale, and Conquerors start, Ruffians tremble in their fear, For their Satan doth depart. This day Fiends give to revelry To celebrate their King's return, And with delight its Sire to see Hell's adamantine limits burn. But were the Devil's sight as keen As Reason's penetrating eye, His sulphurous Majesty I ween, Would find but little cause for joy. For the sons of Reason see That, ere fate consume the Pole, The false Tyrant's cheek shall be Bloodless as his coward soul. — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho