Quotes about sable, page 4
Colemira : A Culinary Eclogue
Insensible of soft desire,
Behold Colemira prove
More partial to the kitchen fire
Than to the fire of Love.
Night's sable clouds had half the globe o'erspread,
And silence reign'd, and folks were gone to bed;
When love, which gentle sleep can ne'er inspire,
Had seated Damon by the kitchen fire.
Pensive he lay, extended on the ground,
The little Lares kept their vigils round
The fawning cats compassionate his case,
And purr around, and gently lick his face:
To all his plaints the sleeping curs reply,
And with hoarse snorings imitate a sigh:
Such gloomy scenes with lovers' minds agree,
And solitude to them is best society.
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poem by William Shenstone
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Colemira. A Culinary Eclogue
Nec tantum Veneris, quantum studiosa culinae.
Imitation.
Insensible of soft desire,
Behold Colemira prove
More partial to the kitchen fire
Than to the fire of Love.
Night's sable clouds had half the globe o'erspread,
And silence reign'd, and folks were gone to bed;
When love, which gentle sleep can ne'er inspire,
Had seated Damon by the kitchen fire.
Pensive he lay, extended on the ground,
The little Lares kept their vigils round
The fawning cats compassionate his case,
And purr around, and gently lick his face:
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poem by William Shenstone
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A Piccaninny
Lo by the “humpy” door a smockless Venus!
Unblushing bronze, she shrinks not, having seen us,
Though there is nought but short couch-grass between us.
She hath no polonaise, no Dolly Varden;
Yet turns she not away, nor asketh pardon;
Fact is, she doesn't care a copper “farden.”
Ah yet, her age her reputation spareth;
At three years old pert Venus little careth,
She puts her hand upon her hip and stareth;
All unabashed, unhaberdashed, unheeding,
No Medicean, charmingly receding,
But quite unconscious of improper breeding.
'Tis well; it smacks of Eden ere came sin in,
Or any rag of consciousness or linen,
Or anything that one could stick a pin in.
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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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The Negro Girl
I.
Dark was the dawn, and o'er the deep
The boist'rous whirlwinds blew;
The Sea-bird wheel'd its circling sweep,
And all was drear to view--
When on the beach that binds the western shore
The love-lorn ZELMA stood, list'ning the tempest's roar.
II.
Her eager Eyes beheld the main,
While on her DRACO dear
She madly call'd, but call'd in vain,
No sound could DRACO hear,
Save the shrill yelling of the fateful blast,
While ev'ry Seaman's heart, quick shudder'd as it past.
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poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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On Hearing that Constantinople Was Swallowed Up by an Earthquake
[A Report, though false, at that time generally believed.]
Fallen are thy towers, Byzantium! towers that stood
Before the Turk's dread fury, when he came,
The crescent sparkling amidst Christian blood,
And to the reeking den of Moloch turned
Sophia's holy fane! Where, where are now,
Imperial city, the late proud remains
Of thy brave founder's greatness, when he clothed
In worldly grandeur pure Religion's form;
Then placed beside him, placed upon a throne,
The lowly Nazarene's meek simple child!....
He, wandering then upon a Christian land,
Stranger at home had been, nor known again
His artless rites, his followers, in the domes
Filled with the sparkling shrine, the rich-robed priests,
And pomp of earthly greatness........But not long
Lived there his name....Science and art, farewell!
The foe of light and love, Mohammed, comes,
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poem by Amelia Opie
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The Bard
'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait,
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria'sÊ curse, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 10
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy sideÊ
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.
I.2
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
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poem by Thomas Gray
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The Salad. By Virgil
The winter night now well nigh worn away,
The wakeful cock proclaimed approaching day,
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,
Yawned, stretched his limbs, and anxious to provide
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied,
By slow degrees his tattered bed forsook,
And poking in the dark, explored the nook
Where embers slept with ashes heaped around,
And with burnt fingers'-ends the treasure found.
It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose
Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose;
When trimming with a pin the incrusted tow,
And stooping it towards the coals below,
He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite
The lingering flame, and gains at length a light.
With prudent heed he spreads his hand before
The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door.
Small was his stock, but taking for the day,
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away,
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poem by William Cowper
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La Course
Vous m’avez dit :
Laisse-les vivre
Là-bas...
Que t’importent leurs bonds ou leurs pas
Sur l’herbe de l’aurore ou l’herbe de midi,
M’avez-vous dit ?
C’est vrai. Ma maison est haute et belle sur la place.
C’est vrai que ma maison est haute et belle et vaste,
Faite de marbre avec un toit de tuiles d’or ;
J’y vis ; j’y dors ;
Mon pas y traîne sur les dalles
Le cuir taillé de mes sandales,
Et mon manteau sur le pavé
Frôle son bruit de laine souple.
J’ai des amis, le poing levé,
Qui heurtent, en chantant, leurs coupes
A la beauté !
On entre ; on sort.
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poem by Henri de Regnier
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Part of an Irregular Fragment
I.
Rise, winds of night! relentless tempests, rise!
Rush from the troubled clouds, and o'er me roll!
In this chill pause a deeper horror lies,
A wilder fear appals my shudd'ring soul!--
'Twas on this day,* this hour accurst,
That Nature, starting from repose,
Heard the dire shrieks of murder burst--
From infant innocence they rose,--
And shook these solemn towers!
I shudd'ring pass that fatal room,
For ages wrapt in central gloom!--
I shudd'ring pass that iron door,
Which fate perchance unlocks no more;
Death, smear'd with blood, o'er the dark portal lowers!
II.
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poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Aux proscrits
EN PLANTANT LE CHÊNE DES ÉTATS-UNIS D'EUROPE
DANS LE JARDIN DE HAUTEVILLE HOUSE
LE 14 JUILLET 1870
I
Semons ce qui demeure, ô passants que nous sommes !
Le sort est un abîme, et ses flots sont amers,
Au bord du noir destin, frères, semons des hommes,
Et des chênes au bord des mers !
Nous sommes envoyés, bannis, sur ce calvaire,
Pour être vus de loin, d'en bas, par nos vainqueurs,
Et pour faire germer par l'exemple sévère
Des coeurs semblables à nos coeurs.
Et nous avons aussi le devoir, ô nature,
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poem by Victor Hugo
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