Quotes about nam, page 14
Man the Monarch
Amaz'd we read of Nature's early Throes
How the fair Heav'ns and pond'rous Earth arose:
How blooming Trees unplanted first began;
And Beasts submissive to their Tyrant, Man:
To Man, invested with despotic Sway,
While his mute Brethren tremble and obey;
Till Heav'n beheld him insolently vain,
And checked the Limits of his haughty Reign.
Then from their Lord, the rude Deserters fly,
And, grinning back, his fruitless Rage defy;
Pards, Tygers, Wolves, to gloomy Shades retire,
And Mountain-Goats in purer Gales respire.
To humble Valleys, where soft Flowers blow,
And fatt'ning Streams in crystal Mazes flow,
Full of new Life, the untam'd Coursers run,
And roll, and wanton, in the chearful Sun;
Round their gay Hearts the dancing Spirits rise,
And Rouse the Lightnings in their rolling Eyes:
To cragged Rocks destructive Serpents glide,
Whose mossy Crannies hide their speckled Pride;
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poem by Mary Leapor
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To Mrs. Strangeways Horner, With A Letter From My Son;
O thou, with ev'ry Virtue grac'd,
Adorn'd with Wit, and Sense, and Taste;
Who, with a Goodness unconfin'd,
Delight'st in blessing human Kind,
Whose Woes so oft thy Peace destroy;
'Tis just, thou shouldst partake their Joy:
Then in my Transport deign to share;
Behold this Letter from my Heir:
There see the Picture of a Mind,
In Duty, as in Arts, refin'd;
Who, in full Triumph, could submit
His Trophies at his Parent's Feet.
So he, in Roman Story fam'd,
Who from Corioli was nam'd,
With Joy engag'd in glorious Toils,
To glad his Mother with the Spoils:
Her Son, by Roman Arms, o'ercame;
By Roman Arts, mine soars to Fame.
Methinks, I see your Friendship rise,
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poem by Mary Barber
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Death
Today I hear
my cousin dead
of cancer...
she was a little darling
to me and the family
but dead
now
I think of my death
like I did
back in 1998
if it's going to approach me
sooner or later
My old friend is dead
of liver cancer
people are dying around us
where would they go
after they die?
This was the most important question
that I have had since young
looking at the tombs on the mount slopes
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poem by Sangnam Nam
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The Habitants Summer
O, who can blame de winter, never min'
de hard he 's blowin'
'Cos w'en de tam is comin' for passin' on
hees roun'
De firse t'ing he was doin' is start de sky a
snowin'
An' mak' de nice w'ite blanket, for cover up
de groun' .
An' de groun' she go a'sleepin' t'roo all de
stormy season,
Restin' from her work las' summer, till she 's
waken by the rain
Dat le bon Dieu sen' some morning, an' of
course dat 's be de reason
Ev'ry year de groun' she 's lookin' jus' as
fresh an' young again.
Den you geev her leetle sunshine, w'en de snow
go off an' leave her
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poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Dove
In Virgil's Sacred Verse we find,
That Passion can depress or raise
The Heav'nly, as the Human Mind:
Who dare deny what Virgil says?
But if They shou'd; what our Great Master
Has thus laid down, my Tale shall prove.
Fair Venus wept the sad Disaster
Of having lost her Fav'rite Dove.
In Complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;
His Grief reliev'd his Mother's Pain;
He vow'd he'd leave no Stone unturn'd,
But She shou'd have her Dove again.
Tho' None, said He, shall yet be nam'd,
I know the Felon well enough:
But be She not, Mamma, condemn'd
Without a fair and legal Proof.
With that, his longest Dart he took,
As Constable wou'd take his Staff:
That Gods desire like Men to look,
Wou'd make ev'n Heraclitus laugh.
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poem by Matthew Prior
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The Trail of Tears
You have the trail
but where are the tears?
No idea?
You are not that interested in tears
of those who had trodden the trail
from Georgia to Oklahoma
with little to eat or to clothe themselves
Might have seen hundreds and thousands of dead corpses
lying on the outskirts of the trail
with lice and bugs eating their flesh
The winter cold is so harsh
the blanket that they were wearing with bare feet
won't keep them warm
and What about the US army soldiers
once in a while raiding the folks
with a bundle of babies and little kids
they have to survive the long walks and the
cold and the starvation
to look for the place they can call home
for their homes were ripped by the white
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poem by Sangnam Nam
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Australia
One woman was singing a Yugoslavian song
at a hostel
while I smell some pot smoke coming
into the window from outside
The buildings were all painted white and blue with pink tones
the new settlers in the 1800s have built their homes
on the outskirts of Sydney the port city of
New South Wales
The Yugoslavian song was so foreign and exotic in my ears
and the melody is soaking in my heart
while I wondered who is the person smoking pot
at that early hour of the morning
That day I went out to the Sydney port
to see where the new settlers might have first docked
their ships
where the English criminals were shipped to be
only imprisoned
the first ancestors of the Ausies
'Goo'day, mate! '
They say hi to me this way
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poem by Sangnam Nam
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The Old House And The New
Is it only twelve mont' I play de fool,
You're sure it 's correc' , ma dear?
I 'm glad for hearin' you spik dat way
For I t'ink it was twenty year,
Since leffin' de leetle ole house below,
I mak' wit' ma own two han'
For go on dat fine beeg place, up dere-
Mon Dieu! I'm de crazy man!
You 'member we 're not very riche, cherie,
Dat tam we 're beginnin' life!
Mese'f I'm twenty, an' you eighteen
W'en I 'm bringin' you home ma wife,
Many de worry an' troub' we got
An' some of dem was n't small,
But not very long dey bodder us
For we work an' forget dem all.
An' you was de savin' woman too,
Dere 's nobody beat you dere!
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poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Story Of Ill May Day, In The Reign Of King Henry VIII
The Story of Ill May Day, in the reign of king Henry the Eighth, and why it was so called; and how Queen Katherine begged the lives of two thousand London Apprentices. -- To the Tune of Essex Good Night.
Peruse the stories of this land,
And with advisement mark the same,
And you shall justly understand
How Ill May Day first got the name.
For when king Henry th' eighth did reign
And rul'd our famous kingdom here,
His royal queen he had from Spain,
With whom he liv'd full many a year.
Queen Katherine nam'd, as stories tell,
Some time his elder brother's wife;
By which unlawful marriage fell
An endless trouble during life:
Of his fair queen, and of her friends,
Which being by Spain and France perceiv'd,
Their journeys fast for England bends.
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Botany-Bay Flowers
GOD of this Planet! for the name best fits
The purblind view, which men of this "dim spot"
Can take of THEE, the GOD Of Suns and Spheres!
What desert forests, and what barren plains,
Lie unexplor'd by European eye,
In what our Fathers call'd the Great South Land!
Ev'n in those tracts, which we have visited,
Tho' thousands of thy vegetable works
Have, by the hand of Science (as 'tis call'd)
Been gather'd and dissected, press'd and dried,
Till all their blood and beauty are extinct;
And nam'd in barb'rous Latin, men's surnames,
With terminations of the Roman tongue;
Yet tens of thousands have escap'd the search,
The decimation, the alive-impaling,
Nick-naming of GOD'S creatures -- 'scap'd it all.
Still fewer (perhaps none) of all these Flowers
Have been by Poet sung. Poets are few.
And Botanists are many, and good cheap.
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poem by Barron Field
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