To the Fair Clarinda by Aphra Behn

Who made love to me,
Imagin'd more than woman.

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.
This last will justify my soft complaint,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth pursue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view.
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain
With thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain,
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.
In pity to our Sex sure thou wer't sent,
That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:
For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;
Or if we shou'd - thy Form excuses it.
For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes
A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.

Though beauteous Wonder of a different kind,
Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join'd;
When e'er the Manly part of thee, wou'd plead
Though tempts us with the Image of the Maid,
While we the noblest Passions do extend
The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.

Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child by Aphra Behn

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent ;
The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ;
Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms
Has learn'd the little arts of doing harms ;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin'd ;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven ;
Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.

A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made by Aphra Behn

A thousand Martyrs I have made,
All sacrific'd to my desire;
A thousand Beauties have betray'd,
That languish in resistless Fire.
The untam'd Heart to hand I brought,
And fixt the wild and wandring Thought.
I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain
But both, th false, were well receiv'd.
The Fair are pleas'd to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ'd.
And th I talked of Wounds and Smart,
Loves Pleasures only toucht my Heart.
Alone the Glory and the Spoil
I always Laughing bore away;
The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,
Without the Hell, the Heav'n of Joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the Fools that whine for Love.

A Congratulatory Poem by Aphra Behn

While my sad Muse the darkest Covert Sought,
To give a loose to Melancholy Thought;
Opprest, and sighing with the Heavy Weight
Of an Unhappy dear Lov'd Monarch's Fate;
A lone retreat, on Thames's Brink she found,
With Murmering Osiers fring'd, and bending Willows Crown'd,
Thro' the thick Shade cou'd dart no Chearful Ray,
Nature dwelt here as in disdain of Day:
Content, and Pleas'd with Nobler Solitude,
No Wood-Gods, Fawns, nor Loves did here Intrude,

Nor Nests for wanton Birds, the Glade allows;
Scarce the soft Winds were heard amongst the Boughs.
While thus She lay resolv'd to tune no more
Her fruitless Songs on Brittains Faithless Shore,
All on a suddain thro' the Woods there Rung,
Loud Sounds of Joy that Jo Peans Sung.
Maria! Blest Maria! was the Theam,
Great Brittains happy Genius, and her Queen.

The River Nimphs their Crystal Courts forsake,
Curl their Blew Locks, and Shelly Trumpets take:

And the surprising News along the Shore,
In raptur'd Songs the wondring Virgins bore;
Whilst Mourning Eccho now forgot her Sighs,
And sung the new taught Anthem to the Skyes.
All things in Nature, a New Face put on,
Thames with Harmonious Purlings glides along,
And tells her Ravisht Banks, she lately bore
A Prize more great than all her hidden Store,
Or all the Sun it self e're saw before.

The brooding Spring, her Fragrant Bloom sent out,

Scattering her early Perfumes round about;
No longer waits the Lasie teeming Hours,
But e're her time produc'd her Oderous Flowers;
Maria's Eyes Anticipate the May,
And Life inspir'd beyond the God of Day.
The Muses all upon this Theam Divine,
Tun'd their best Lays, the Muses all, but mine,
Sullen with Stubborn Loyalty she lay,
And saw the World its eager Homage pay,
While Heav'n and Earth on the new Scene lookt gay.

But Oh! What Human Fortitude can be
Sufficient to Resist a Deity?
Even our Allegiance here, too feebly pleads,
The Change in so Divine a Form perswades;
Maria with the Sun has equal Force,
No Opposition stops her Glorious Course,
Her pointed Beams thro' all a passage find,
And fix their Rays Triumphant in the Mind.
And now I wish'd among the Crouds to Adore,
And constant wishing did increase my Power;

From every thought a New-born Reason came
Which fortifyed by bright Maria's Fame,
Inspir'd My Genious with new Life and Flame,
And thou, Great Lord, of all my Vows, permit
My Muse who never fail'd Obedience yet,
To pay her Tribute at Marias Feet,
Maria so Divine a part of You,
Let me be Just -- but Just with Honour too.

Resolv'd, She join'd her Chorus with the Throng,
And to the listning Groves Marias Vertues Sung;

Maria all Inchanting, Gay, and Young,
All Hail Illustrious Daughter of a King,
Shining without, and Glorious all within,
VVhose Eyes beyond your scantier Power give Laws,
Command the VVord, and justifie the Cause;
Nor to secure your Empire needs more Arms
Than your resistless, and all Conquering Charms;
Minerva Thus alone, Old Troy Sustain'd,
Whilst her Blest Image with three Gods remain'd;
But Oh! your Form and Manner to relate,

The Envying Fair as soon may Imitate,
'Tis all Engaging Sweet, 'tis all Surprising Great;
A thousand Beauties Triumph in your Air,
Like those of soft Young Loves your Smiles appear,
And to th'Ungarded Hearts, as dangerous are:
All Natures Charms are open'd in your Face,
You Look, you Talk, with more than Human Grace;

All that is Wit, all that is Eloquence.
The Births of finest Thought and Noblest Sense,
Easie and Natural from your Language break,

And 'tis Eternal Musick when you speak;
Thro' all no formal Nicety is seen,
But Free and Generous your Majestick Meen,
In every Motion, every Part a Queen;
All that is Great and Lovely in the Sex,
Heav'n did in this One Glorious Wonder fix,
Apellis thus to dress the Queen of Love,
Rob'd the whole Race, a Goddess to improve.
Yet if with Sighs we View that Lovely Face,
And all the Lines of your great Father's Trace,

Your Vertues should forgive, while we adore
That Face that Awes, and Charms our Hearts the more;
But if the Monarch in your Looks we find,
Behold him yet more glorious in your Mind;
'Tis there His God-like Attributes we see.
A Gratious Sweetness, Affability,
A Tender Mercy and True Piety;
And Vertues even sufficient to Attone
For all the Ills the Ungrateful World has done,
Where several Factions, several Intrests sway,
And that is still it'h Right who gains the Day;
How e're they differ, this they all must grant,
Your Form and Mind, no One Perfection want,
Without all Angel, and within all Saint.

The Murmering World till now divided lay,
Vainly debating whom they shou'd Obey,
Till You Great Cesar's Off-spring blest our Isle,
The differing Multitudes to Reconcile;
Thus Stiff-neckt Israel in defiance stood,
Till they beheld the Prophet of their God;

Who from the Mount with dazling brightness came,
And Eyes all shining with Celestial Flame;
Whose Awful Looks, dispel'd each Rebel Thought,
And to a Just Compliance, the wilde Nations brought.

I Love the Naked Ages Long Ago by Charles Baudelaire

    I love the naked ages long ago
    When statues were gilded by Apollo,
    When men and women of agility
    Could play without lies and anxiety,
    And the sky lovingly caressed their spines,
    As it exercised its noble machine.
    Fertile Cybele, mother of nature, then,
    Would not place on her daughters a burden,
    But, she-wolf sharing her heart with the people,
    Would feed creation from her brown nipples.
    Men, elegant and strong, would have the right
    To be proud to have beauty named their king;
    Virgin fruit free of blemish and cracking,
    Whose flesh smooth and firm would summon a bite!
    The Poet today, when he would convey
    This native grandeur, would not be swept away
    By man free and woman natural,
    But would feel darkness envelop his soul
    Before this black tableau full of loathing.
    O malformed monsters crying for clothing!
    O ludicrous heads! Torsos needing disguise!
    O poor writhing bodies of every wrong size,
    Children that the god of the Useful swaths
    In the language of bronze and brass!
    And women, alas! You shadow your heredity,
    You gnaw nourishment from debauchery,
    A virgin holds maternal lechery
    And all the horrors of fecundity!

    We have, it is true, corrupt nations,
    Beauty unknown to the radiant ancients:
    Faces that gnaw through the heart's cankers,
    And talk with the cool beauty of languor;
    But these inventions of our backward muses
    Are never hindered in their morbid uses
    Of the old for profound homage to youth,
    To the young saint, the sweet air, the simple truth,
    To the eye as limpid as the water current,
    To spread out over all, insouciant
    Like the blue sky, the birds and the flowers,
    Its perfumes, its songs and its sweet fervors.

A Martyr by Charles Baudelaire

    Surrounded by flasks, and by spangled lames,
    All matter of sumptuous goods,
    Marble sculptures, fine paintings, and perfumed peignoirs
    That trail in voluptuous folds,

    In a room like a greenhouse, both stuffy and warm,
    An atmosphere heavy with death,
    Where arrangements of flowers encoffined in glass
    Exhale their ultimate breath,

    A headless cadaver spills out like a stream
    On a pillow adorning the bed,
    A flow of red blood, which the linen drinks up
    With a thirsty meadow's greed.

    Like pale apprehensions born in the dark,
    And that enchain the eyes,
    The head - the pile of its ebony mane
    With precious jewels entwined

    On the night table, like a ranunculus
    Reposes; and a gaze,
    Mindless and vague and as black as the dusk
    Escapes from the pallid face.

    On the bed the nude torso displays without shame
    And most lasciviously,
    The secret magnificence, fatal allure,
    Of its nature's artistry;

    On the leg, a pink stocking adorned with gold clocks
    Remains like a souvenir;
    The garter, a diamond-blazing eye,
    Hurls a glance that is cold and severe.

    The singular aspect of this solitude,
    Like the portrait hung above
    With eyes as enticing as languorous pose,
    Reveals an unspeakable love,

    Perverse entertainments and culpable joys
    Full of devilish intimacies,
    Which would make the dark angels swarm with delight
    In the folds of the draperies;

    And yet, to notice the elegant lines
    Of the shoulder lean and lithe,
    The haunch a bit pointed, the turn of the waist,
    Like a snake aroused to strike,

    She is still in her youth! Did her sickness of soul
    And her senses gnawed by ennui
    Open to her that depraved pack of lusts
    And encourage them willingly?

    That intractable man whom alive you could not,
    Despite so much love, satisfy,
    Did he there, on your still and amenable corpse,
    His appetite gratify?

    Tell me, cadaver! and by your stiff hair
    Raising with feverous hand,
    Terrible head, did he paste on your teeth
    His kisses again and again?

    Far away from the world, from the taunts of the mob,
    Far from the prying police,
    Strange creature, within your mysterious tomb
    I bid you to sleep in peace.

    Your bridegroom may roam, but the image of you
    Stands by him wherever he rests;
    As much as you, doubtless, the man will be true,
    And faithful even till death.

Happy the Lab'rer by Jane Austen

Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
And hat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows,
Pays to the place the reverence he owes,
Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows,
Lists to the sermon in a softening doze,
And rouses joyous at the welcome close.

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast, the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,

Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Brighter Shone the Golden Shadows by Louisa May Alcott

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,
And o'er the home of happy flowers
The golden light for ever lay.
Thus the Fairy mission ended,
And all Flower-Land was taught
The 'Power of Love,' by gentle deeds
That little Violet wrought.

The Downward Road by Louisa May Alcott

    Two Yankee maids of simple mien,
    And earnest, high endeavour,
    Come sailing to the land of France,
    To escape the winter weather.
    When first they reached that vicious shore
    They scorned the native ways,
    Refused to eat the native grub,
    Or ride in native shays.
    'Oh, for the puddings of our home!
    Oh, for some simple food!
    These horrid, greasy, unknown things,
    How can you think them good?'
    Thus to Amanda did they say,
    An uncomplaining maid,
    Who ate in peace and answered not
    Until one day they said--
    How _can_ you eat this garbage vile
    Against all nature's laws?
    How _can_ you eat your nails in points,
    Until they look like claws?'
    Then patiently Amanda said,
    'My loves, just wait a while,
    The time will come you will not think
    The nails or victuals vile.'
    A month has passed, and now we see
    That prophecy fulfilled;
    The ardour of those carping maids
    Is most completely chilled.
    Matilda was the first to fall,
    Lured by the dark gossoon,
    In awful dishes one by one
    She dipped her timid spoon.
    She promised for one little week
    To let her nails grow long,
    But added in a saving clause
    She thought it very wrong.
    Thus did she take the fatal plunge,
    Did compromise with sin,
    Then all was lost; from that day forth
    French ways were sure to win.
    Lavinia followed in her train,
    And ran the self-same road,
    Ate sweet-bread first, then chopped-up brains,
    Eels, mushrooms, pickled toad.
    She cries, 'How flat the home _cuisine_
    After this luscious food!
    Puddings and brutal joints of meat,
    That once we fancied good!'
    And now in all their leisure hours
    One resource never fails,
    Morning and noon and night they sit
    And polish up their nails.
    Then if in one short fatal month
    A change like this appears,
    Oh, what will be the next result
    When they have stayed for years?

In the Garret by Louisa May Alcott

        Four little chests all in a row,
        Dim with dust, and worn by time,
        All fashioned and filled, long ago,
        By children now in their prime.
        Four little keys hung side by side,
        With faded ribbons, brave and gay
        When fastened there, with childish pride,
        Long ago, on a rainy day.
        Four little names, one on each lid,
        Carved out by a boyish hand,
        And underneath there lieth hid
        Histories of the happy band
        Once playing here, and pausing oft
        To hear the sweet refrain,
        That came and went on the roof aloft,
        In the falling summer rain.


        "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
        I look in with loving eyes,
        For folded here, with well-known care,
        A goodly gathering lies,
        The record of a peaceful life--
        Gifts to gentle child and girl,
        A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
        A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
        No toys in this first chest remain,
        For all are carried away,
        In their old age, to join again
        In another small Meg's play.
        Ah, happy mother! Well I know
        You hear, like a sweet refrain,
        Lullabies ever soft and low
        In the falling summer rain.


        "Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,
        And within a motley store
        Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
        Birds and beasts that speak no more,
        Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
        Only trod by youthful feet,
        Dreams of a future never found,
        Memories of a past still sweet,
        Half-writ poems, stories wild,
        April letters, warm and cold,
        Diaries of a wilful child,
        Hints of a woman early old,
        A woman in a lonely home,
        Hearing, like a sad refrain--
        "Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
        In the falling summer rain.


        My Beth! the dust is always swept
        From the lid that bears your name,
        As if by loving eyes that wept,
        By careful hands that often came.
        Death canonized for us one saint,
        Ever less human than divine,
        And still we lay, with tender plaint,
        Relics in this household shrine--
        The silver bell, so seldom rung,
        The little cap which last she wore,
        The fair, dead Catherine that hung
        By angels borne above her door.
        The songs she sang, without lament,
        In her prison-house of pain,
        Forever are they sweetly blent
        With the falling summer rain.


        Upon the last lid's polished field--
        Legend now both fair and true
        A gallant knight bears on his shield,
        "Amy" in letters gold and blue.
        Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
        Slippers that have danced their last,
        Faded flowers laid by with care,
        Fans whose airy toils are past,
        Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
        Trifles that have borne their part
        In girlish hopes and fears and shames,
        The record of a maiden heart
        Now learning fairer, truer spells,
        Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
        The silver sound of bridal bells
        In the falling summer rain.


        Four little chests all in a row,
        Dim with dust, and worn by time,
        Four women, taught by weal and woe
        To love and labor in their prime.
        Four sisters, parted for an hour,
        None lost, one only gone before,
        Made by love's immortal power,
        Nearest and dearest evermore.
        Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
        Lie open to the Father's sight,
        May they be rich in golden hours,
        Deeds that show fairer for the light,
        Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
        Like a spirit-stirring strain,
        Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
        In the long sunshine after rain.

Fairy Song by Louisa May Alcott

    The moonlight fades from flower and tree,
    And the stars dim one by one;
    The tale is told, the song is sung,
    And the Fairy feast is done.
    The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,
    And sings to them, soft and low.
    The early birds erelong will wake:
    'T is time for the Elves to go.

    O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,
    Unseen by mortal eye,
    And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float
    Through the quiet moonlit sky;--
    For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,
    And the flowers alone may know,
    The feasts we hold, the tales we tell:
    So 't is time for the Elves to go.

    From bird, and blossom, and bee,
    We learn the lessons they teach;
    And seek, by kindly deeds, to win
    A loving friend in each.
    And though unseen on earth we dwell,
    Sweet voices whisper low,
    And gentle hearts most joyously greet
    The Elves where'er they go.

    When next we meet in the Fairy dell,
    May the silver moon's soft light
    Shine then on faces gay as now,
    And Elfin hearts as light.
    Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky
    With sunlight soon will glow.
    The morning star shall light us home:
    Farewell! for the Elves must go.