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Tim's Vermeer

Cast: Colin Blakemore, David Hockney, Tim Jenison, Penn Jillette, Martin Mull, Philip Steadman

trailer for Tim's Vermeer, directed by Teller (2013)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Enoch Arden

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow'd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash'd away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play'd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
`This is my house and this my little wife.'
`Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Mull Of Kintyre

Mull of kintyre
Oh mist rolling in from the sea,
My desire is always to be here
Oh mull of kintyre
Far have I traveled and much have I seen
Dark distant mountains with valleys of green.
Past painted deserts the sunsets on fire
As he carries me home to the mull of kintyre.
Mull of kintyre
Oh mist rolling in from the sea,
My desire is always to be here
Oh mull of kintyre
Sweep through the heather like deer in the glen
Carry me back to the days I knew then.
Nights when we sang like a heavenly choir
Of the life and the time of the mull of kintyre.
Mull of kintyre
Oh mist rolling in from the sea,
My desire is always to be here
Oh mull of kintyre
Smiles in the sunshine
And tears in the rain
Still take me back to where my memories remain
Flickering embers growing higher and higher
As they carry me back to the mull of kintyre
Mull of kintyre
Oh mist rolling in from the sea,
My desire is always to be here
Oh mull of kintyre
Mull of kintyre
Oh mist rolling in from the sea,
My desire is always to be here
Oh mull of kintyre

song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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Colin Clouts Come Home Againe

Colin Clouts Come Home Againe
THe shepheards boy (best knowen by that name)
That after Tityrus first sung his lay,
Laies of sweet loue, without rebuke or blame,
Sate (as his custome was) vpon a day,
Charming his oaten pipe vnto his peres,
The shepheard swaines, that did about him play:
Who all the while with greedie listfull eares,
Did stand astonisht at his curious skill,
Like hartlesse deare, dismayed with thunders sound.
At last when as he piped had his fill,
He rested him: and sitting then around,
One of those groomes (a iolly groome was he,
As euer piped on an oaten reed,
And lou'd this shepheard dearest in degree,
Hight Hobbinol) gan thus to him areed.
Colin my liefe, my life, how great a losse
Had all the shepheards nation by thy lacke?
And I poore swaine of many greatest crosse:
That sith thy Muse first since thy turning backe
Was heard to sound as she was wont on hye,
Hast made vs all so blessed and so blythe.
Whilest thou wast hence, all dead in dole did lye:
The woods were heard to waile full many a sythe,
And all their birds with silence to complaine:
The fields with faded flowers did seem to mourne,
And all their flocks from feeding to refraine:
The running waters wept for thy returne,
And all their fish with langour did lament:
But now both woods and fields, and floods reuiue,
Sith thou art come, their cause of meriment,
That vs late dead, hast made againe aliue:
But were it not too painfull to repeat
The passed fortunes, which to thee befell
In thy late voyage, we thee would entreat,
Now at thy leisure them to vs to tell.
To whom the shepheard gently answered thus,
Hobbin thou temptest me to that I couet:
For of good passed newly to discus,
By dubble vsurie doth twise renew it.
And since I saw that Angels blessed eie,
Her worlds bright sun, her heauens fairest light,
My mind full of my thoughts satietie,
Doth feed on sweet contentment of that sight:
Since that same day in nought I take delight,
Ne feeling haue in any earthly pleasure,
But in remembrance of that glorious bright,
My lifes sole blisse, my hearts eternall threasure.
Wake then my pipe, my sleepie Muse awake,
Till I haue told her praises lasting long:

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poem by Edmund Spenser
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Tale XIII

JESSE AND COLIN.

A Vicar died and left his Daughter poor -
It hurt her not, she was not rich before:
Her humble share of worldly goods she sold,
Paid every debt, and then her fortune told;
And found, with youth and beauty, hope and health,
Two hundred guineas was her worldly wealth;
It then remain'd to choose her path in life,
And first, said Jesse, 'Shall I be a wife? -
Colin is mild and civil, kind and just,
I know his love, his temper I can trust;
But small his farm, it asks perpetual care,
And we must toil as well as trouble share:
True, he was taught in all the gentle arts
That raise the soul and soften human hearts;
And boasts a parent, who deserves to shine
In higher class, and I could wish her mine;
Nor wants he will his station to improve,
A just ambition waked by faithful love;
Still is he poor--and here my Father's Friend
Deigns for his Daughter, as her own, to send:
A worthy lady, who it seems has known
A world of griefs and troubles of her own:
I was an infant when she came a guest
Beneath my father's humble roof to rest;
Her kindred all unfeeling, vast her woes,
Such her complaint, and there she found repose;
Enrich'd by fortune, now she nobly lives,
And nobly, from the bless'd abundance, gives;
The grief, the want, of human life she knows,
And comfort there and here relief bestows:
But are they not dependants?--Foolish pride!
Am I not honour'd by such friend and guide?
Have I a home' (here Jesse dropp'd a tear),
'Or friend beside?'--A faithful friend was near.
Now Colin came, at length resolved to lay
His heart before her, and to urge her stay:
True, his own plough the gentle Colin drove,
An humble farmer with aspiring love;
Who, urged by passion, never dared till now,
Thus urged by fears, his trembling hopes avow:
Her father's glebe he managed; every year
The grateful Vicar held the youth more dear;
He saw indeed the prize in Colin's view,
And wish'd his Jesse with a man so true:
Timid as true, he urged with anxious air
His tender hope, and made the trembling prayer,
When Jesse saw, nor could with coldness see,
Such fond respect, such tried sincerity;

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poem by George Crabbe
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Absalom and Achitophel

In pious times, e'er Priest-craft did begin,
Before Polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multiply'd his kind,
E'r one to one was, cursedly, confind:
When Nature prompted, and no law deny'd
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart
To Wives and Slaves; And, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Maker's Image through the Land.
Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,
A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller's care;
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
To Godlike David, several Sons before.
But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,
No True Succession could their seed attend.
Of all this Numerous Progeny was none
So Beautifull, so brave as Absalon:
Whether, inspir'd by some diviner Lust,
His father got him with a greater Gust;
Or that his Conscious destiny made way
By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.
Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,
With Kings and States ally'd to Israel's Crown
In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,
And seem'd as he were only born for love.
What e'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please.
His motions all accompanied with grace;
And Paradise was open'd in his face.
With secret Joy, indulgent David view'd
His Youthfull Image in his Son renew'd:
To all his wishes Nothing he deny'd,
And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
His Father could not, or he would not see.
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
Were constru'd Youth that purg'd by boyling o'r:
And Amnon's Murther, by a specious Name,
Was call'd a Just Revenge for injur'd Fame.
Thus Prais'd, and Lov'd, the Noble Youth remain'd,
While David, undisturb'd, in Sion raign'd.
But Life can never be sincerely blest:
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.
The Jews, a Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring race,
As ever try'd th' extent and stretch of grace;
God's pamper'd people whom, debauch'd with ease,
No King could govern, nor no God could please;
(Gods they had tri'd of every shape and size
That Gods-smiths could produce, or Priests devise.)

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poem by John Dryden
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Additions

The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's

THEY had long met o' Zundays--her true love and she--
And at junketings, maypoles, and flings;
But she bode wi' a thirtover uncle, and he
Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be
Naibor Sweatley--a gaffer oft weak at the knee
From taking o' sommat more cheerful than tea--
Who tranted, and moved people's things.

She cried, "O pray pity me!" Nought would he hear;
Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed,
She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi' her.
The pa'son was told, as the season drew near
To throw over pu'pit the names of the peäir
As fitting one flesh to be made.

The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on;
The couple stood bridegroom and bride;
The evening was passed, and when midnight had gone
The folks horned out, "God save the King," and anon
The two home-along gloomily hied.

The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear
To be thus of his darling deprived:
He roamed in the dark ath'art field, mound, and mere,
And, a'most without knowing it, found himself near
The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear,
Where the lantern-light showed 'em arrived.

The bride sought her cham'er so calm and so pale
That a Northern had thought her resigned;
But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal,
Like the white cloud o' smoke, the red battlefield's vail,
That look spak' of havoc behind.

The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain,
Then reeled to the linhay for more,
When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain--
Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi' might and wi' main,
And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar.

Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light,
Through brimble and underwood tears,
Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright
In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi' fright,
Wi' on'y her night-rail to screen her from sight,
His lonesome young Barbree appears.

Her cwold little figure half-naked he views

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's

They had long met o' Zundays--her true love and she--
And at junketings, maypoles, and flings;
But she bode wi' a thirtover uncle, and he
Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be
Naibor Sweatley--a gaffer oft weak at the knee
From taking o' sommat more cheerful than tea--
Who tranted, and moved people's things.

She cried, "O pray pity me!" Nought would he hear;
Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed,
She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi' her.
The pa'son was told, as the season drew near
To throw over pu'pit the names of the peäir
As fitting one flesh to be made.

The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on;
The couple stood bridegroom and bride;
The evening was passed, and when midnight had gone
The folks horned out, "God save the King," and anon
The two home-along gloomily hied.

The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear
To be thus of his darling deprived:
He roamed in the dark ath'art field, mound, and mere,
And, a'most without knowing it, found himself near
The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear,
Where the lantern-light showed 'em arrived.

The bride sought her cham'er so calm and so pale
That a Northern had thought her resigned;
But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal,
Like the white cloud o' smoke, the red battlefield's vail,
That look spak' of havoc behind.

The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain,
Then reeled to the linhay for more,
When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain--
Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi' might and wi' main,
And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar.

Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light,
Through brimble and underwood tears,
Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright
In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi' fright,
Wi' on'y her night-rail to screen her from sight,
His lonesome young Barbree appears.

Her cwold little figure half-naked he views
Played about by the frolicsome breeze,
Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes,

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Peace On Earth - Little Drummer Boy

David: hello...... youre the new butler?
Bing: hahaha! well, its been a long time since Ive been the new anything!
David: whats happened to hudson?
Bing: I guess hes changing.
David: yeah, he does that a lot, doesnt he? uhm... oh, Im david bowie, I live
Down the road.
Bing: oh!
David: sir percival lets me use his piano if he not around. hes not around, is
He?
Bing: I can honestly say I havent seen him, but come on in! come in!
David: but uh...
Bing: come on in!
David: are you related to sir percival?
Bing: well, distantly...
David: oh, youre not the poor relation from america, right?
Bing: ha! gee... news sure travels fast, doesnt it? Im bing.
David: oh, Im pleased to meet you. youre the one that sings, right?
Bing: well, right or wrong, I sing either way.
David: oh well, I sing too.
Bing: oh good! what kind of singing?
David: mostly the contemporary stuff. do you eh... do you like modern music?
Bing: oh, I think its marvellous! some of its really fine. but tell me, have you ever listened to any of the older fellows?
David: oh yeah, sure. I like ah... john lennon and the other one with eh...harry
Nilsson.
Bing: mmm... you go back that far, uh?
David: yeah, Im not as young as I look.
Bing: haha, none of us is these days!
David: in fact Ive got a six year old son. and he really gets excited around the christmas holiday-thing.
Bing: do you go in for anything of the traditional things in the... boy, household, christmas time?
David: oh yeah, most of them really. presents, tree, decorations, agents sliding down the chimney...
Bing: what? ?
David: oh, I was just seeing if you were paying attention.
Bing: haha!
David: actually, our family do most of the things that other families do. we
Sing the same songs.
Bing: do you?
David: oh, I even have a go at white christmas.
Bing: you do, eh!
David: and this one. this is my sons favourite. do you know this one?
Bing: oh, I do indeed, its a lovely theme.
And they told me pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
A new-born king to see pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
Our finest gifts we bring pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
Ra-pam-pam-pam, ra-pam-pam-pam
Peace on earth, can it be
Years from now, perhaps well see
See the day of glory
See the day, when men of good will
Live in peace, live in peace again
Peace on earth, can it be

[...] Read more

song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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Peace On Earth / Little Drummer Boy (feat. Bing Crosby)

David: Hello...... you're the new butler?
Bing: Hahaha! Well, it's been a long time since I've been the new anything!
David: What's happened to Hudson?
Bing: I guess he's changing.
David: Yeah, he does that a lot, doesn't he? Uhm... Oh, I'm David Bowie, I live
down the road.
Bing: Oh!
David: Sir Percival let's me use his piano if he not around. He's not around, is
he?
Bing: I can honestly say I haven't seen him, but come on in! Come in!
David: But uh...
Bing: Come on in!
David: Are you related to sir Percival?
Bing: Well, distantly...
David: Oh, you're not the poor relation from America, right?
Bing: Ha! Gee... news sure travels fast, doesn't it? I'm Bing.
David: Oh, I'm pleased to meet you. You're the one that sings, right?
Bing: Well, right or wrong, I sing either way.
David: Oh well, I sing too.
Bing: Oh good! What kind of singing?
David: Mostly the contemporary stuff. Do you eh... do you like modern music?
Bing: Oh, I think it's marvellous! Some of it's really fine. But tell me, have you ever listened to any of the older fellows?
David: Oh yeah, sure. I like ah... John Lennon and the other one with eh...Harry
Nilsson.
Bing: Mmm... you go back that far, uh?
David: Yeah, I'm not as young as I look.
Bing: Haha, none of us is these days!
David: In fact I've got a six year old son. And he really gets excited around the Christmas holiday-thing.
Bing: Do you go in for anything of the traditional things in the... boy, household, Christmas time?
David: Oh yeah, most of them really. Presents, tree, decorations, agents sliding down the chimney...
Bing: What??
David: Oh, I was just seeing if you were paying attention.
Bing: Haha!
David: Actually, our family do most of the things that other families do. We
sing the same songs.
Bing: Do you?
David: Oh, I even have a go at 'White Christmas'.
Bing: You do, eh!
David: And this one. This is my son's favourite. Do you know this one?
Bing: Oh, I do indeed, it's a lovely theme.
And they told me pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
A new-born king to see pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
Our finest gifts we bring pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
Ra-pam-pam-pam, ra-pam-pam-pam
Peace on Earth, can it be
Years from now, perhaps we'll see
See the day of glory
See the day, when men of good will
Live in peace, live in peace again
Peace on Earth, can it be

[...] Read more

song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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Little David

Play, little david
Play little david, play
David he would sit in some dark corner
Seemed to melt the shadows with his eyes
And the song that he was playing
Was nothing less than prayin
And nothing more than sayin Im alive.
Wont you play, little david
Play little david, play
David he would send them notes a-flyin
Some that laughed and some that felt like tears
He would play them fast or slowly
Play them high or lowly
But they always come out holy to my ear
Wont you play, little david, play little david, play
I dont need no sunday sermon
Need no sunday shoes
When I hear little david playing
I got religion through and through
David he would send them notes a-flyin
Some that laughed and some that felt like tears
He would play them fast or slowly
Play them high or lowly
But they always come out holy to my ear
Wont you play, little david, play little david, play
I dont need no sunday sermon
Need no sunday shoes
When I hear little david playing
I got religion through and through
David he would send them notes a-flyin
Some that laughed and some that felt like tears
He would play them fast or slowly
Play them high or lowly
But they always come out holy to my ear
Wont you play, little david, play little david, play
Wont you play, little david, play little david, play

song performed by Joni Mitchell
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hind And The Panther, A Poem In Three Parts : Part III.

Much malice, mingled with a little wit,
Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ;
Because the muse has peopled Caledon
With panthers, bears, and wolves, and beasts unknown,
As if we were not stocked with monsters of our own.
Let Æsop answer, who has set to view
Such kinds as Greece and Phrygia never knew;
And Mother Hubbard, in her homely dress,
Has sharply blamed a British lioness;
That queen, whose feast the factious rabble keep,
Exposed obscenely naked, and asleep.
Led by those great examples, may not I
The wonted organs of their words supply?
If men transact like brutes, 'tis equal then
For brutes to claim the privilege of men.
Others our Hind of folly will indite,
To entertain a dangerous guest by night.
Let those remember, that she cannot die,
Till rolling time is lost in round eternity;
Nor need she fear the Panther, though untamed,
Because the Lion's peace was now proclaimed;
The wary savage would not give offence,
To forfeit the protection of her prince;
But watched the time her vengeance to complete,
When all her furry sons in frequent senate met;
Meanwhile she quenched her fury at the flood,
And with a lenten salad cooled her blood.
Their commons, though but coarse, were nothing scant,
Nor did their minds an equal banquet want.
For now the Hind, whose noble nature strove
To express her plain simplicity of love,
Did all the honours of her house so well,
No sharp debates disturbed the friendly meal.
She turned the talk, avoiding that extreme,
To common dangers past, a sadly-pleasing theme;
Remembering every storm which tossed the state,
When both were objects of the public hate,
And dropt a tear betwixt for her own children's fate.
Nor failed she then a full review to make
Of what the Panther suffered for her sake;
Her lost esteem, her truth, her loyal care,
Her faith unshaken to an exiled heir,
Her strength to endure, her courage to defy,
Her choice of honourable infamy.
On these, prolixly thankful, she enlarged;
Then with acknowledgments herself she charged;
For friendship, of itself an holy tie,
Is made more sacred by adversity.
Now should they part, malicious tongues would say,
They met like chance companions on the way,

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poem by John Dryden
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The Ballad Of Betsy

Betsy now pulls the cart towards sweet home that day
Her size makes pulling baby carts as mere child's play
She's huge, a Labrador, obtained from Russian friend
Trained by cop, we'll call Tim - that isn't his real name

Tim can slug between the eyes crooks across the street
His temper's short, but long the distance he'd shoot straight
His baby, Betsy pulls in cart as they would stroll
Today could be the day, she waits maternal call

So many pats, did Tim bestow on Betsy's head
As due reward for deeds of bravery she'd made
To Betsy it's worth all to life and what it brought
And with her newborn pups, she's bound for added worth

One fateful day, as Tim was out, the stork came in,
And for Betsy it looks like Fate did show her grin,
But as her seventh pup was out, a wolf came by
It bit the baby that so loud it now did cry

Still in maternity, she sprang to guard duty
To give battle, protect her tuft, succeed ably
She'd killed the wolf, at last, but not without its price
Bloodied and stained, she hardly moves from where she lies

But worse is for the fox that now nary is seen,
Concealed in undergrowth from where it once had been
The stench of death will fill the air in future days
Or else its rotted corpse thereat forever stays

As Tim arrives, she thought a pat would ease her pain
She whined a bit to point out to where she'd lain
Tim saw the baby bleeding red from dangling arm
And felt the matching blood on Betsy's face still warm

To Tim this meant a smoking gun that he has found
As victim and the culprit were all still around
Ten years of Police work taught him to act now fast
He struck at Betsy who just stared feeling aghast

The pat that Betsy yearned now came, but seemed too hard
It split her skull and felt as though there flew a shard
Her pups, too, Tim held nothing back, he game them all
She watched with mournful eyes as last of them did fall

She stared at Tim with eyes where now fresh blood had sprung
As if to say, "If you'd kill me, please spare my young, "
"I've only done the best I can, if not enough,
Then punish me, but please, let live a single pup."

[...] Read more

poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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David

My thought, on views of admiration hung,
Intently ravish'd and depriv'd of tongue,
Now darts a while on earth, a while in air,
Here mov'd with praise and mov'd with glory there;
The joys entrancing and the mute surprize
Half fix the blood, and dim the moist'ning eyes;
Pleasure and praise on one another break,
And Exclamation longs at heart to speak;
When thus my Genius, on the work design'd
Awaiting closely, guides the wand'ring mind.

If while thy thanks wou'd in thy lays be wrought,
A bright astonishment involve the thought,
If yet thy temper wou'd attempt to sing,
Another's quill shall imp thy feebler wing;
Behold the name of royal David near,
Behold his musick and his measures here,
Whose harp Devotion in a rapture strung,
And left no state of pious souls unsung.

Him to the wond'ring world but newly shewn,
Celestial poetry pronounc'd her own;
A thousand hopes, on clouds adorn'd with rays,
Bent down their little beauteous forms to gaze;
Fair-blooming Innocence with tender years,
And native Sweetness for the ravish'd ears,
Prepar'd to smile within his early song,
And brought their rivers, groves, and plains along;
Majestick Honour at the palace bred,
Enrob'd in white, embroider'd o'er with red,
Reach'd forth the scepter of her royal state,
His forehead touch'd, and bid his lays be great;
Undaunted Courage deck'd with manly charms,
With waving-azure plumes, and gilded arms,
Displaid the glories, and the toils of fight,
Demanded fame, and call'd him forth to write.
To perfect these the sacred spirit came,
By mild infusion of celestial flame,
And mov'd with dove-like candour in his breast,
And breath'd his graces over all the rest.
Ah! where the daring flights of men aspire
To match his numbers with an equal fire;
In vain they strive to make proud Babel rise,
And with an earth-born labour touch the skies.
While I the glitt'ring page resolve to view,
That will the subject of my lines renew;
The Laurel wreath, my fames imagin'd shade,
Around my beating temples fears to fade;
My fainting fancy trembles on the brink,
And David's God must help or else I sink.

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poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Shepherd's Week : Tuesday; or, the Ditty

Marian.
Young Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;
In every wood his carrols sweet were known,
At every wake his nimble feats were shown.
When in the ring the rustic routs he threw,
The damsel's pleasures with his conquests grew;
Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head,
His danger smites the breast of every maid;
But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain,
The parson's maid, and neatest of the plain.
Marian that soft could stroke the udder'd cow,
Or lessen, with her sieve, the barley mow;
Marbled with sage the hardening cheese she press'd,
And yellow butter Marian's skill confess'd;
But Marian now devoid of country cares,
Nor yellow butter nor sage cheese prepares.
For yearning love the witless maid employs,
And love, say swains, 'all busy heed destroys.'
Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart,
A lass that Cicily hight, had won his heart,
The rival of the parson's maid was she.
In dreary shade now Marian lies along,
And mix'd with sighs thus wails in plaining song.
Ah woful day! ah woful noon and morn!
When first by thee my younglings white were shorn,
Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye,
My sheep were silly, but more silly I.
Beneath the sheers they felt no lasting smart,
They lost but fleeces while I lost a heart.
Ah Colin! canst thou leave thy sweetheart true!
What have I done for thee will Cicily do?
Will she thy linen wash or hosen darn,
And knit thee gloves made of her own-spun yarn?
Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat,
And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait?
Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In service-time drew Cicily's eyes aside.
Where'er I gad I cannot hide my care,
My new disasters in my look appear.
White as the curd my ruddy cheek has grown,
So thin my features that I'm hardly known;
Our neighbours tell me oft in joking talk,
Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,
And wist not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Colin Clout, untoward shepherd swain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I 'plain.
Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moll all day, and merry-make at night.

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poem by John Gay
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Colin's Mistakes. Written In Imitation Of Spenser's Style

Fast by the banks of Cam was Colin bred,
(Ye Nymphs, for every guard that sacred stream)
To Wimple's woody shade his way he sped,
(Flourish those woods, the Muses' endless theme.)
As whilom Colin ancient books had read,
Lays Greek and Roman would he oft rehearse,
And much he loved, and much by heart he said,
What Father Spenser sung in British verse.
Who reads that bard desire like him to write,
Still fearful of success, still tempted by delight.

Soon as Aurora had unbarr'd the morn,
And light discover'd Nature's cheerful face,
The sounding clarion and the sprightly horn
Call'd the blithe huntsman to the distance chase.
Eftsoons they issue forth, a goodly band;
The deep mouth'd bounds with thunder rend the air,
The fiery coursers strike the rising sand,
Far through the thicket flies the frighted deer;
Harley the honour of the day supports,
His presence glads the woods, his orders guide the sports.

On a fair palfrey, well equipp'd, did sit
An Amazonian dame; a scarlet vest,
For active horsemanship adaptly fit,
Enclosed her dainty limbs; a plumed crest
Waved o'er her head; obedient by her side
Her friends and servants rode; with artful hand
Full well knew she the steed to turn and guide:
The willing steed received her soft command.
Courage and sweetness on her face was seated:
On her all eyes were bent, and all good wishes waited.

This seeing, Colin thus his Muse bespake,
For alltydes was the Muse to Colin nigh,
Ah me, too nigh! or, Clio, I mistake,
Or that bright form that pleaseth so mine eye,
Is Jove's fair daughter Pallas, gracious queen
Of liberal arts; with wonder and delight
In Homer's verse we read her; well I ween
That emulous of his Grecian master's flight,
Dan Spenser makes the favourite goddess known,
When in her graceful look fair Britomart is shown.

At noon as Colin to the castle came,
Oped were the gates, and right prepared the feast;
Appears at table richly clad a dame,
The lord's delight, the wonder of the guest;
With pearl and jewels was she sumptuous deck'd,
As well became her dignity and place,

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poem by Matthew Prior
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The Hammers

I

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786

Bang!
Bang!
Tap!
Tap-a-tap! Rap!
All through the lead and silver Winter days,
All through the copper of Autumn hazes.
Tap to the red rising sun,
Tap to the purple setting sun.
Four years pass before the job is done.
Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,
Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,
Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks
With huge boles
Round which the tape rolls
Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks.
Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;
Planking from Dantzig.
My! What timber goes into a ship!
Tap! Tap!
Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,
Tapping, tapping.
You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze.
Through the fog down the reaches of the river,
The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.
The church-bells chime
Hours and hours,
Dropping days in showers.
Bang! Rap! Tap!
Go the hammers all the time.
They have planked up her timbers
And the nails are driven to the head;
They have decked her over,
And again, and again.
The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.
Black and blue breeches,
Pigtails bound and shining:
Like ants crawling about,
The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.
Joiners, calkers,
And they are all terrible talkers.
Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales
Of whales, and spice islands,
And pirates off the Barbary coast.
He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.
Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,
He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:

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poem by Amy Lowell
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The Shepheardes Calender: November

November: Ægloga vndecima. Thenot & Colin.

Thenot.
Colin my deare, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou were | wont songs of some iouisaunce?
Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing,
Lulled a sleepe through loues misgouernaunce.
Now somewhat sing, whose endles souenaunce,
Emong the shepeheards swaines may aye remaine,
Whether thee list the loued lasse aduaunce,
Or honor Pan with hymnes of higher vaine.

Colin.
Thenot, now nis the time of merimake.
Nor Pan to herye, nor with loue to playe:
Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade vnder the cocked haye.
But nowe sadde Winter welked hath the day,
And Phoebus weary of his yerely tas-ke,
Ystabled hath his steedes in lowlye laye,
And taken vp his ynne in Fishes has-ke.
Thilke sollein season sadder plight doth aske:
And loatheth sike delightes, as thou doest prayse:
The mornefull Muse in myrth now list ne mas-ke,
As shee was wont in yougth and sommer dayes.
But if thou algate lust light virelayes,
And looser songs of loue to vnderfong
Who but thy selfe deserues sike Poetes prayse?
Relieue thy Oaten pypes, that sleepen long.

Thenot.
The Nightingale is souereigne of song,
Before him sits the Titmose silent bee:
And I vnfitte to thrust in [s]kilfull thronge,
Should Colin make iudge of my fooleree.
Nay, better learne of hem, that learned bee,
An han be watered at the Muses well:
The kindlye dewe drops from the higher tree,
And wets the little plants that lowly dwell.
But if sadde winters wrathe and season chill,
Accorde not with thy Muses meriment:
To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill,
And sing of sorrowe and deathes dreeriment.
For deade is Dido, dead alas and drent,
Dido the greate shepehearde his daughter sheene:
The fayrest May she was that euer went,
Her like shee has not left behind I weene.
And if thou wilt bewayle my wofull tene:
I shall thee giue yond Cosset for thy payne:
And if thy rymes as rownd and rufull bene,

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poem by Edmund Spenser
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A Story at Dusk

An evening all aglow with summer light
And autumn colour—fairest of the year.

The wheat-fields, crowned with shocks of tawny gold,
All interspersed with rough sowthistle roots,
And interlaced with white convolvulus,
Lay, flecked with purple shadows, in the sun.
The shouts of little children, gleaning there
The scattered ears and wild blue-bottle flowers—
Mixed with the corn-crake's crying, and the song
Of lone wood birds whose mother-cares were o'er,
And with the whispering rustle of red leaves—
Scarce stirred the stillness. And the gossamer sheen
Was spread on upland meadows, silver bright
In low red sunshine and soft kissing wind—
Showing where angels in the night had trailed
Their garments on the turf. Tall arrow-heads,
With flag and rush and fringing grasses, dropped
Their seeds and blossoms in the sleepy pool.
The water-lily lay on her green leaf,
White, fair, and stately; while an amorous branch
Of silver willow, drooping in the stream,
Sent soft, low-babbling ripples towards her:
And oh, the woods!—erst haunted with the song
Of nightingales and tender coo of doves—
They stood all flushed and kindling 'neath the touch
Of death—kind death!—fair, fond, reluctant death!—
A dappled mass of glory!
Harvest-time;
With russet wood-fruit thick upon the ground,
'Mid crumpled ferns and delicate blue harebells.
The orchard-apples rolled in seedy grass—
Apples of gold, and violet-velvet plums;
And all the tangled hedgerows bore a crop
Of scarlet hips, blue sloes, and blackberries,
And orange clusters of the mountain ash.
The crimson fungus and soft mosses clung
To old decaying trunks; the summer bine
Drooped, shivering, in the glossy ivy's grasp.
By day the blue air bore upon its wings
Wide-wandering seeds, pale drifts of thistle-down;
By night the fog crept low upon the earth,
All white and cool, and calmed its feverishness,
And veiled it over with a veil of tears.

The curlew and the plover were come back
To still, bleak shores; the little summer birds
Were gone—to Persian gardens, and the groves
Of Greece and Italy, and the palmy lands.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Philip, My King

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Philip, my king!
Round whom the enshadowing purple lies
Of babyhood's royal dignities.
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand
With love's invisible scepter laden;
I am thine Esther to command
Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,
Philip, my king.

O the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my king!
When those beautiful lips are suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,
For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth, - up to thy brow,
Philip, my king!
The spirit that there lies sleeping now
May rise like a giant and make men bow
As to one heaven-chosen among his peers.
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer,
Let me behold thee in future years! -
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my king.

- A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip, my king!
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
Thorny and cruel and cold and gray:
Rebels within thee, and foes without,
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious,
Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,
As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious,
'Philip, the king!'

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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We don't cry—Tim and I

196

We don't cry—Tim and I,
We are far too grand—
But we bolt the door tight
To prevent a friend—

Then we hide our brave face
Deep in our hand—
Not to cry—Tim and I—
We are far too grand—

Nor to dream—he and me—
Do we condescend—
We just shut our brown eye
To see to the end—

Tim—see Cottages—
But, Oh, so high!
Then—we shake—Tim and I—
And lest I—cry—

Tim—reads a little Hymn—
And we both pray—
Please, Sir, I and Tim—
Always lost the way!

We must die—by and by—
Clergymen say—
Tim—shall—if I—do—
I—too—if he—

How shall we arrange it—
Tim—was—so—shy?
Take us simultaneous—Lord—
I—"Tim"—and Me!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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