Poems by Mark Akenside
Sorted by title, showing title and first line
Occasion'd by the Insults of the Spaniards, and the present Preparations for War, 1738.
The Shape alone let others prize,
Yes; you contemn the perjur'd maid
Oh fly! 'tis dire Suspicion's mien;
While yet the world was young, and men were few,
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
What's Female Beauty, but an Art divine,
Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here
To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call
Such was old Chaucer. such the placid mien
A Dialogue: Addressed to a young Lady.
How thick the shades of evening close!
Science! thou fair effusive ray
ARGUMENT.
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
Too much my heart of Beauty's power hath known,
Me tho' in life's sequester'd vale
O youths and virgins: o declining eld:
If, yet regardful of your native land,
On yonder verdant hilloc laid,
The radiant ruler of the year
Thou silent power, whose welcome sway
O rustic herald of the spring,
I
Whither did my fancy stray?
Thrice hath the spring beheld thy faded fame
Come then, tell me, sage divine,
Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the while
Of all the springs within the mind
Come then, tell me, sage divine,
Meek honor, female shame,
I
No, foolish youth, To virtuous fame
I
Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's hill,
Not for themselves did human kind
What, then, is taste but those internal powers,
Away! away!
To-night retired, the queen of heaven
BOOK I
With what attractive charms this goodly frame
With what inchantment nature's goodly scene
THE ARGUMENT.
One effort more, one cheerful sally more,
THE GENERAL ARGUMENT.
THE GENERAL ARGUMENT.
When shall the laurel and the vocal string
Thus far of beauty and the pleasing forms
THE ARGUMENT.
ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.
ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.
What tongue then may explain the various fate
What tongue then may explain the various fate
ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK.
ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK.
Of all the various lots around the ball,
Whilom by silver Thames's gentle stream,
Approach in silence. 'tis no vulgar tale
Indeed, my Phaedra, if to find
With sordid floods the wintry Urn
From pompous life's dull masquerade,
Behold; the Balance in the sky
The men renown'd as chiefs of human race,
Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled?
To-night retir'd the queen of heaven
Say, Townshend, what can London boast
Queen of my songs, harmonious maid,
I
I
Believe me, Edwards, to restrain
Attend to Chaulieu's wanton lyre;
Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies
Ye powers unseen, to whom, the bards of Greece