A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period
What beck’ning ghost, along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
‘Tis she!–but why that bleeding bosom gor’d,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav’n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye else, ye pow’rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods;
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin’d to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch’d her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death:
Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way)
“Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steel’d,
And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne’er learn’d to glow
For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.”
What can atone (oh ever-injur’d shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas’d thy pale ghost, or grac’d thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos’d,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d,
By strangers honour’d, and by strangers mourn’d!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish’d marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow’d dirge be mutter’d o’er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov’d, how honour’d once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
‘Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov’d no more!
A few random poems:
- Афанасий Фет – Сад весь в цвету
- Everyone Sang by Siegfried Sassoon
- The Gardener XVI: Hands Cling to Eyes by Rabindranath Tagore
- Robert Burns: A Dream: Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; But surely Dreams were ne’er indicted Treason. On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate’s Ode, with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee: and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address:
- Johnny Rich by Will McKendree Carleton
- Lines Written On Visiting The Chateaux On The Loire poem – Alfred Austin
- A Cozy Little Room by Mary Etta Metcalf
- Notes for Canto CXX poem – Ezra Pound poems
- Two Months by Rudyard Kipling
- Огюст Барбье – Ни кротостью, ни негой ясной
- Иван Дмитриев – Смерть и Умирающий
- Birth Of A Flower by Riss Ryker
- Юрий Галансков – Рванулось пламя из ствола
- Федор Сологуб – В его саду растет рябина
- The Castle By The River by Vaishnavi Prakash
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Владимир Луговской – Лимонная ночь
- Владимир Луговской – Курсантская венгерка
- Владимир Луговской – Краски
- Владимир Луговской – Конек-горбунок
- Владимир Луговской – Капитанский штиль
- Владимир Луговской – Игорь
- Владимир Луговской – Гуниб
- Владимир Луговской – Фотограф
- Владимир Луговской – Дорога
- Владимир Луговской – Береза Карелии
- Владимир Луговской – Баллада о пустыне
- Владимир Луговской – Алайский рынок
- Владимир Высоцкий – Дорожный дневник: Часть IV
- Владимир Высоцкий – Дорожный дневник: Часть II
- Владимир Высоцкий – Дорожная история
- Владимир Высоцкий – Дорога, дорога, счёта нет шагам
- Владимир Высоцкий – Долго же шёл ты, в конверте листок
- Высоцкий – Диалог у телевизора (Ой, Вань, смотри какие клоуны): текст стиха Владимира Высоцкого – Poetry Monster
- Владимир Высоцкий – День рождения лейтенанта милиции в ресторане “Берлин”
- Владимир Высоцкий – День-деньской я с тобой, за тобой
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Alexander Pope (1688 – 1744) was a a post-Restoration English poet and satirist. He is a poet of the (British) Augustan period and one of its greatest artistic exponents.