 The Spleen, a Pindaric poem by Anne Finch. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. What heart thou, Spleen? Which everything dust-ape? Thou proteas to abused mankind, Who never yet thy real cause could find, Or fix thee to remain in one continued shape? Still varying thy perplexing form, Now a dead sea thou'lt represent? A calm of stupid discontent, Then dashing on the rocks wilt rage into A storm, trembling sometimes thou dost appear, Dissolved into a panic fear. On sleep and trooting dust thy shadows spread, Thy gloomy terrors round the silent bed, Then crowd with boarding dreams the melancholy head, Or when the midnight hour is told, And drooping lids thou still-dust waking hold, Thy fond delusions cheat the eyes, Before them, antic specters dance, Unusual fires their pointed heads advance, And airy phantoms rise. Such was the monstrous vision seen, When Brutus, now beneath his cares oppressed, Did all Rome's fortunes rolling in his breast. Before Philippe's latest field, Before his fate did to Octavius lead, Was vanquished by the Spleen. Falsely the mortal part we blame Of our depressed and ponderous frame, Which till the first degrading sin Let thee its dull attendant in. Still with the other did comply, Nor clog the active soul disposed to fly, And range the mansions of its native sky, Nor whilst in its own heaven he dwelt, Whilst man his paradise possessed, His fertile garden in the fragrant east, And all united odors smelt. No arm's sweets until thy brain Could shock the sense, Or in the face a flushed, unhandsome color place. Now the junk wall overcomes the feeble brain. We faint beneath the aromatic pain, Till some offensive scent thy powers appease, And pleasure we resign for short and nauseous ease. In every one thou doth possess, New are thy motions and thy dress. Now in some grove a listening friend Thy false suggestions must attend. Thy whispered griefs, Thy fancied sorrows hear, Breathed in a sigh and witnessed by a tear, Whilst in the light and vulgar crowd, Thy slaves more clamorous and loud, By laughter's unprovoked, thy influence too confess. In the imperious wife thou vapor's art, Which from overheated passions rise in clouds To the attractive brain, Until descending thence again through the overcast And showering eyes upon her husband's softened heart. He the disputed point much yield, Something resign of the contested field, Till lordly man, born to imperial sway, Compounds for peace, To make that right away, And women armed with spleen do servile the obey. The fool, to imitate the wits, Complains of thy pretended fits, And dullness born with him Would lay upon thy accidental sway. Because sometimes thou dost presume Into the ablest heads to come, Yet often men of thoughts refined Impatient of unequal sense, Such slow returns, where they so much dispense, Retiring from the crowd, Are to thy shades inclined. Or me alas, thou dost too much prevail, I feel thy force, whilst I against the rail, I feel my verse decay, And my cramped numbers fail. Through thy black jauntest I all objects see As dark and terrible as thee. My lines decried, And my employment thought a useless folly, Or presumptuous fault, Whilst in the muses' paths I stray, Whilst in their groves And by their secret springs my hand delights To trace unusual things, And deviates from the known and common way. For will in fading silks compose Faintly the inevitable rose. Fill up an ill-drawn bird Or paint on glass the sovereign's blurred And undistinguished face, The threatening angel, and the speaking ass. Patron thou art to every gross abuse The sullen husband's feigned excuse, When the ill humor with his wife he spends, And bears recruiting wit and spirits to his friends. The sun of Bacchus pleads thy power As to the glass he still repairs, Pretends but to remove thy cares Snatch from thy shades one gay and smiling hour And drown thy kingdom in a purple shower. When the coquette whom every fool admires Would in variety be fair, And changing hastily the scene From light, impertinent and vain Assumes a soft and melancholy air, And her eyes rebates the wandering fires, The careless posture and the head recline, The thoughtful and composed face, Proclaiming the withdrawal, the absent mind, Allows the fob more liberty to gaze, Who gently for the tender cause inquires, The cause indeed is a defect in sense, Yet is the spleen alleged, And still the dull pretence. But these are thy fantastic harms, The tricks of thy pernicious stage, Which do the weaker sort engage, Worse are the dire effects of thy more powerful charms. By thee, religion, all we know, That should enlighten here below, Is veiled in darkness and perplexed With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vexed And some restraint imply From each perverted text. Whilst touch not, taste not, What is freely given, Is but thy niggered voice, Disgracing bounteous heaven, From speech restrained by thy deceits abused, To deserts banished or in cells reclused, Mistaken votaries to the powers divine, Whilst they appear a sacrifice design, Do but the spleen obey, And worship at thy shrine. In vain to chase the every art we try, In vain all remedies apply, In vain the Indian leaf infuse, Or the parched eastern berry bruise. Some pass in vain these bounds, And nobler liquors use. Now harmony in vain we bring, Inspire the flute and touch the string. From harmony no help is had, Music but soothes thee, If too sweetly sad, And if too light, but turns thee gaily mad. Though the physician's greatest gains, Although his growing wealth he sees daily increased By ladies' fees, He adutth thou baffle all his studious pains, Not skillful lower thy source could find. Or through the well-desected body Trace the secret, the mysterious ways, By which thou dost surprise And pray upon the mind. Though in the search too deep for human thought, With unsuccessful toil he wrought, Till thinking thee to have catched, Himself by thee was caught, Retained thy prisoner, thy acknowledged slave, And sunk beneath thy chain to a lamented grave. TOO LONG HAD LOVED, AND NOW THE Nymph desired, The cloak of wedlock as the case required. The day he wrought her to this sorrow, He vowed that he would marry her to-morrow. Agent he swears to shun the present storm, That he, to-morrow, will that vow perform. The morrows in their due successions came. In patience still on each the pregnant dame urged him to keep his word, And still he swore the same. When tired at length and meaning no redress, And yet the lie not caring to confess, He, for his oath this salvo chose to borrow, That he was free, since there was no to-morrow. For when it comes in place to be employed, Tis then today, to-morrow's nare enjoyed. The tales adjust, the moral is a truth. To-morrow and to-morrow cheat your youth. In ripe a rage, to-morrow still we cry, Not thinking that the present day we die. Unpracticed all the good we had designed, There's no to-morrow to a willing mind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. The Inner Vision by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org. Most sweet it is with un-uplifted eyes to pace the ground. If path there be or none, while a fair region round the traveller lies, Which he forebears again to look upon. Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, the work of fancy, Or some happy tone of meditation, slipping in between the beauty coming And the beauty gone. If thought and love desert us, from that day let us break off all commerce with the muse, With thought and love, companions of our way. What ere the senses take, or may refuse, The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dues of inspiration on the humblest lay. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. London by William Blake. Read for LibriVox.org by Anne Cheng. I wander through each chartered street, near where the chartered Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet, marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, in every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, the mind-forged manacles I hear. How the chimney-sweepers cry, every blackening church appalls, And the hapless soldier's sigh runs in blood down palace walls. But most through midnight streets I hear, how the youthful harlots curse, Gloss the newborn infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Composed upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Anne Cheng. September 3rd 1802. Earth has not anything to show more fair. dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty. This city now, doth like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning. Silent bear, ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples, Lie open unto the fields, and to the sky, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep in his first splendor, Valley rock or hill, ne'er saw eye never felt a calm so deep. The river glideeth at his own sweet will. Dear God, the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Red Red Rose by Robert Mormons. This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Alexander Houston. My love is like a red red rose that's newly sprung in June. My love is like the melody that's sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bunny, last so deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, to lie the seas gang dry. I will love thee still, my dear, or the sands of life shall run. And fair thee will, my only love, and fair thee will a while. And I will come again, my love, though it were ten thousand mile. End of The Red Red Rose. This recording is in the public domain. Letter to Lord Chesterfield. End of The Red Red Rose. This recording is in the public domain. Letter to Lord Chesterfield by Samuel Johnson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Michael Dowling. Letter to Lord Chesterfield by Samuel Johnson. February 1755. To the right honourable, the Earl of Chesterfield. My Lord, I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of the world, that two papers in which my dictionary is recommended to the public were written by your Lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might post myself that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending. But I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your Lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing, which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could, and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. Seven years, my Lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door, during which time I have been pushing on my work, through difficulties of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with love, and found him a native of the Rocks. Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take at my labours, had it been early, had been kind, but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it, till I am solitary, and cannot impart it, till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations, where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron which providence has enabled me to do for myself. Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed, though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less. For I have been long waken from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with so much exaltation, my Lord, your Lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, Samuel Johnson. This recording is in the public domain. Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes, sees, the graves open, and the bones arising, flames all around them. Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches, lively bright whore, an amazing anguish stare through their eyelids, while the living worm lies gnawing within them. Thoughts, like old vultures, pray upon their heartstrings, and the smart twinges, when the eye behold the lofty judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance rolling before him. Hopeless immortals, how they scream and shiver, while devils push them to the pit, wide yawning, hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong down to the center. Stop here, my fancy. All away ye whore, doful ideas. Come arise to Jesus, how he sits godlike, and the saints around him throned, yet adoring. Oh, may I sit there when he comes triumphant, dooming the nations. Then ascend to glory, while our Hosannas all along the passage shout, the Redeemer. End of poem, The Day of Judgment, by Isaac Watts. This recording, read by T. Wellington, is in the public domain. Wrestling Jacob by Charles Wesley. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by T. Wellington. Wrestling Jacob. Come, O thou traveler unknown, whom still I hold, but cannot see. My company before is gone, and I am left alone with thee. With thee all night I mean to stay. And wrestle till the break of day. I need not tell thee who I am, my misery or sin declare. Thyself has called me by my name. Look on thy hands and read it there. But who, I ask thee, who art thou? Tell me thy name and tell me now. In vain thou struggleest to get free. I never will unloose my hold. Are thou the man who died for me? The secret of thy love unfold. Wrestling I will not let thee go. Tell I thy name, thy nature know. Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, or touch the hollow of my thigh. Though every sinew be unstrung, out of my arms thou shalt not fly. Wrestling I will not let thee go. Till I thy name, thy nature know. My strength is gone, my nature dies. I sink beneath thy weighty hand, faint to revive, and fall to rise. I fall, and yet by faith I stand. I stand, and will not let thee go, till I thy name, thy nature know. Yeal to me now, for I am weak, but confident in self-despair. Speak to my heart in blessings speak. Be conquered by my instant prayer. Speak, or thou never hence shall move. And tell me, if thy name is love. Tis love, tis love, thou diedst for me. I hear thy whisper in my heart. The morning breaks, the shadows flee. Pure universal love, thou art. To me, to all, thy bowels move. Thy nature and thy name is love. Contented now upon my thigh, I halt till life's short journey end. All helplessness, all weakness I. On thee alone for strength depend. Nor have I power from thee to move. Thy nature and thy name is love. Lame as I am, I take the prey. Hell, earth, and sin with ease or come. I leap for joy, pursue my way. And as a bounding heart fly home, through all eternity to prove thy nature and thy name is love. End of poem, Wrestling Jacob, by Charles Wesley. This recording, read by T. Wellington, is in the public domain. A cradle hymn by Isaac Watts. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by T. Wellington. A cradle hymn. Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber. Holy angels guard thy bed. Heavenly blessings without number, gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment. House and home thy friends provide. All without thy care or payment. All thy wants are well supplied. How much better, though art attended, than the Son of God could be, when from heaven he descended and became a child like thee. Soft and easy is thy cradle. Coarse and hard thy Savior lay. When his birthplace was a stable, and his softest bed was hay. Blessed babe, what glorious features, spotless hair, divinely bright. Must he dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight? Was there nothing but a manger, cursed sinners could afford, to receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront their Lord? Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, though my song might sound too hard. Tiss thy mother sits beside thee, and her arms shall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story, how the Jews abused their king. How they serve the Lord of glory makes me angry while I sing. See the kinder shepherds round him, telling wonders from the sky, where they sought him, there they found him, with his virgin mother by. See the lovely babe addressing, lovely infant, how he smiled. When he wept, the mother's blessing, soothed and hushed the holy child. Lo, he slumbers in a manger, where the horned oxen fed. Peace, my darling, here's no danger, here's no ox near thy bed. T'was to save thee, child, from dying, save my dear from burning flame. Bitter groans and endless crying, that thy blessed redeemer came. Mace thou live to know and fear him, trust and love him all thy days. Then go dwell, for ever near him, see his face, and sing his praise. End of poem, A Cradle Him, by Isaac Watts. This recording, read by T. Wellington, is in the public domain. I would not enter on my list of friends, though graced with polished manners and fine sense, yet wanting sensibility, the man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail that crawls at evening in the public path, but he that has humanity forewarned will tread aside and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin loathsome to the sight, and charged, perhaps with venom, that intrudes a visitor unwelcome into scenes sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, the chamber, or refractory, may die. A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so when, held within their proper bounds and guiltless of offense, they range the air, or take their pastime in the spacious field. There they are privileged, and he that hurts or harms them there is guilty of a wrong. Disturbs the economy of nature's realm, who, when she formed, designed them an abode. The sum is this. If man's convenience, health, or safety interfere, his rights and claims are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all, the meanest things that are, as free to live and to enjoy that life, as God was free to form them at the first, who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it too. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Love's Secret by William Blake. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Jane Greensmith of JaneGS.com. Love's Secret by William Blake. Never seek to tell thy love, love that never told can be, for the gentle wind doth move silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, trembling cold and ghastly fears. Ah, she did depart. Soon after she was gone for me, a traveler came by. Silently, invisibly, he took her with a sigh. End of Love's Secret. This recording is in the public domain. One and Twenty by Samuel Johnson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. One and Twenty by Samuel Johnson. Long expected, one and Twenty. Lingering year at length is flown. Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty. Great, are now your own. Loosened from the miner's tether, free to mortgage or to sell. Wild as wind and light as feather. Bid the sons of thrift farewell. Call the Betsy's, Kate's and Jenny's. All the names that banish care. Lavish of your grand size guineas. Show the spirit of an heir. All that prey on vice and folly. Joy to see their quarry fly. There the gamester, light and jolly. There the lender, grave and sly. Wolf, my lad, was made to wander. Let it wander, as it will. Call the jockey, call the panda. Bid them come and take their fill. When the bonny blade carouses, pockets full and spirits high. What are acres, what are houses? Only dirt or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend or mother tell the woes of willful waste, scorn their counsel, scorn their pother. You can hang or drown at last. End of one and twenty. This recording is in the public domain. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud that floats on high orvails and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils. Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads and sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee. A poet could not but be gay in such a jockin' company. I gazed and gazed, but little thought, what wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie, in vacant or impensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude. And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils. End of I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud. This recording is in the public domain. Our conquest there, after twenty years, is as crude as it was the first day. The natives scarcely know what it is to see the grey head of an Englishman. Young men, boys almost, govern there, without society and without sympathy with the natives. They have no more social habits with the people than if they still resided in England. Nor, indeed, any species of intercourse but that which is necessary to making a sudden fortune with a view to a remote settlement. Animated with all the avarice of age and all the impetuosity of youth, they roll in one after another, wave after wave, and there is nothing before the eyes of the natives, but an endless, hopeless prospect of new flights of birds of prey and passage, with appetites continually renewing for a food that is continually wasting. Every rupee of profit made by an Englishman is lost forever to India, with us are no retributory superstitions by which a foundation of charity compensates through ages to the poor for the rapine and injustice of a day. With us no pride erects stately monuments which repair the mischiefs which pride had produced and which adorn a country out of its own spoils. England has erected no churches, no hospitals, no palaces, no schools. England has built no bridges, made no high roads, cut no navigations, dug out no reservoirs. Every other conqueror of every other description has left some monument, either of state or beneficence, behind him. Were we to be driven out of India this day, nothing would remain to tell that it had been possessed during the inglorious period of our dominion by anything better than the orang, orang or the tiger. There is nothing in the boys we sent to India worse than in the boys whom we are whipping at school, or that we see trailing a pike, or bending over a desk at home, but as English youth in India drink the intoxicating draft of authority and dominion before their heads are able to bear it, and as they are full grown in fortune long before they arrive in principle, neither nature nor reason have any opportunity to exert themselves for remedy the excesses of their premature power. The consequences of their conduct, which in good minds, and many of theirs are probably such, might produce penitence or amendment, are unable to pursue the rapidity of their flight. Their prey is lodged in England, and the cries of India are given to season winds to be blown about, in every breaking up of the monsoon, over a remote and unhearing ocean. In India all the vices operate by which sudden fortune is acquired. In England are often displayed by the same persons the virtues which dispense hereditary wealth. Arrived in England the destroyers the nobility and gentry of a whole kingdom will find the best company in this nation at a board of elegance and hospitality. Here the manufacturer and husbandman will bless the just and punctual hand that in India has torn the cloth from the loom, or rested the scanted portion of rice and salt from the peasant of Bengal, or rung from him the very opium in which he forgets his oppressions and his oppressor. They marry into your families, they enter into your senate, they ease your estates by loans, they raise their value by demand, they cherish and protect your relations which lie heavy on your patronage, and they are scarcely a house in the kingdom that does not feel some concern and interest that makes all reform of our eastern government appear officious and disgusting, and on the whole a most discouraging attempt. In such an attempt you hurt those who are able to return kindness, or to resent injury. If you succeed you save those who cannot so much as give you thanks. All these things show the difficulty of the work we have on hand, but they show its necessity too. Our Indian government is in its best state of grievance. It is necessary that the corrective should be uncommonly vigorous, and the work of men, sanguine, warm, and even impassioned in the cause. But it is an arduous thing to plead against the abuses of a power which originates from your own country and affects those whom we are used to consider as strangers. End of extract. This recording is in the public domain. to the world by the cross of Christ. When I survey the wondrous cross on which the prince of glory died, my richest gain I count but loss and pour contempt on all my pride. Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast, save in the death of Christ my God. All the vain things that charm me most I sacrifice them to his blood. See from his head, his hands, his feet, sorrow and love flow mingle down. Did air such love and sorrow meet? Or thorns compose so rich a crown. His dying crimson, like a robe, spreads o'er his body on the tree. Then am I dead to all the globe? And all the globe is dead to me. Where the whole realm of nature mine, that were a present far too small, love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all. End of poem by Isaac Watts. This recording is in the public domain. A debtor to mercy alone. A debtor to mercy alone, of covenant mercy I sing. Nor fear with thy righteousness on, my person and offering to bring. The terrors of law and of God with me can have nothing to do. My saviour's obedience and blood hide all my transgressions from view. The work which his goodness began, the arm of his strength will complete. His promise is yes and amen, and never was forfeited yet. Things future, nor things that are now, nor all things below or above, can make him his purpose for go, or sever my soul from his love. My name from the palms of his hands, eternity will not erase. Impressed on his heart it remains, in marks of indelible grace. Yes, I, to the end shall endure, as sure as the earnest is given. More happy, but not more secure, the glorified spirits in heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The shepherd boy sings in the valley of humiliation by John Bunyan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. According by T. Wellington. The shepherd boy sings in the valley of humiliation. He that is down needs fear no fall. He that is low no pride. He that is humble ever shall have God to be his guide. I am content with what I have, little be it or much. And, Lord, contentment still I crave, because thou savest such. Fulness to such a burden is that go on pilgrimage, here little and here after bliss, is best from age to age. End of poem. The shepherd boy sings in the valley of humiliation by John Bunyan. This recording, read by T. Wellington, is in the public domain. O Domigration Earned by John Keats. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Federmann. O Domigration Earned by John Keats. Thou still unraveished bride of quietness. Thou foster child of silence and slow time. Sylvan historian, who can thus express a flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme. What leaf-ringed legend haunts about thy shape, of deities or mortals or of both, in tempi or the dales of Arcady. What men or gods are these. What maidens loathe. What mad pursuit. What struggle to escape. What pipes and timbrels. What wild ecstasy. Herd melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. Therefore ye soft pipes play on. Not the sensual ear, but more endeared. Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone. Fair youth beneath the trees. Thou canst not leave thy song, nor ever canst those trees be bare. Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss. Though winning near to the goal yet, do not grieve. She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, for ever dwelt thou love, and she be fair. Ah, happy, happy bows, that cannot shed your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu. And happy, melodist, unwirried. Forever piping songs, forever new. More happy love, more happy, happy love. Forever warm and still to be enjoyed. Forever panting and forever young. All breathing human passion far above. That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed. A burning forehead and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Leads thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town, by river or seashore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And little town, by streets forever more, Will silent be, and not a soul to tell, Why thou art desolate, can ere return. O addict-shape fair attitude, With breed of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed, Thou silent form dost tease us out of thought, As doth eternity. Cold pastoral, when old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe than ours. A friend to man, to whom thou sayest, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. End of Odon-Grecian Urn. This recording is in the public domain. Kublikan, by Samuel Taylor Colleridge. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Federman. Kublikan, by Samuel Taylor Colleridge. In Xanadu did Kublikan a stately pleasure-dome decree. Or Alph the Sacred River ran, Through caverns measureless to man, Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground, With walls and towers were girdled round, And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree. And here were forests, ancient as the hills, In folding sunny spots of greenery. But oh, that deep romantic chasm, Which slanted down the green hill, A thwart, a cedar and cover, A savage place, as holy and enchanted, As air beneath a waning moon was haunted, By woman wailing for her demon lover. And from this chasm, with a ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced, A mid-hoos, swift, half-intermitted burst, Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail, And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever, It flung up momentally, the sacred river, Five miles meandering with amaze emotion, Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns, measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean. And mid this tumult, Kubla heard from far, Ancestral voices prophesying war. The shadow of the dome of pleasure, Floated midway on the waves, There was heard the mingled measure, From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice. A damsel with a dulcimer in a vision once I saw, It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Sing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me her symphony and song, To such a deep delight would win me, That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome, those caves of ice, And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, beware, beware. His flashing eyes, his floating hair, Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honeydew hath fed, And wrung the milk of paradise. End of Kubelkan. This recording is in the public domain. A satirical elegy on the death of a late famous general, by Jonathan Swift. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Vetterman. A satirical elegy on the death of a late famous general, by Jonathan Swift. His grace, impossible. What, dead of old age two and in his bed? And could that mighty warrior fall, And so inglorious, after all? Well, since he's gone no matter how, The last loud trump must wake him now, And trust me, as the noise grows stronger, He'd wish to sleep a little longer. And could he be indeed so old, As by the newspapers we're told? Three score, I think is pretty high, Twas time in conscience he should die. This world he combered long enough, He burnt his candle to the snuff. And that's the reason some folks think He left behind so great a stink. Behold, his funeral appears. Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears, Wanted such times each heart to pierce, Attend the progress of his hearse. But what of that, his friends may say? He had those honors in his day, Truth his prophet and his pride, He made them weep before he died. Come hither all ye empty things, He bubbles raised by breath of kings, Who float upon the tide of state. Come hither and behold your fate. Let pride be taught by this rebuke, How very mean things a duke. From all his ill-got honors flung, Turn to that dirt from whence he sprung, And of his eterical elegy, On the death of a late famous general. This recording is in the public domain. 1 and 20 by Samuel Johnson This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by David Ketterman 1 and 20 by Samuel Johnson Long expected 1 and 20. Lingering year at length is flown Pride and a pleasure, pump and plenty. Great Sir John are now your own. Loosened from the miner's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell. Call the Betsy's, Kate's and Jenny's, All the names that banish care, Lavish of your grand sire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir. All that prey on vice and folly, Joy to see their quarry fly, There the gamester light and jolly, There the lender grave and sly. Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will. Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill. When the bonny blade growzes, Pockets full and spirits high, What are acres? What are houses? Only dirt or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of willful waste, Scorn their counsel, Scorn their father, You can hang or drown at last. End of 1 and 20. This recording is in the public domain. On a favorite cat drowned in a tub of gold fishes by Thomas Gray. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Federman. On a favorite cat drowned in a tub of gold fishes by Thomas Gray. Twas on a lofty vase's side, Her china's gayest art had died, The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Salima reclined, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tale, her joy declared, The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws. Her coat, with that tortoise's eyes, Her ears of jet and emerald eyes, She saw and purred applause. Still had she gazed, but midst the tide, Two angel forms were seen to glide, The jenai of the stream, Their scaly armors to rean hue, Throw richest purple to the view, Betrayed a golden gleam. The hapless nymph with wonder saw, A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish. She stretched in vain to reach the prize, What female heart can gole despise, What cat's averse to fish. Presumptuous maid, with look's intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. Malignant fate set by and smiled, The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed every watery god, Some speedy eight to send. No dolphin came, no ne'eried stirred, Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A favorite has no friend. From hencey beauties, undeceived, No, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that listers gold. End of Anna favorite cat, Drowned in a tub of goldfishes. This recording is in the public domain, A Poison Tree, by William Blake. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Recording by David Fetterman. A Poison Tree, by William Blake. I was angry with my friend. I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe. I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears. And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft, deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore and apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole, When the night had veiled the pole. In the morning glad I see, My foe outstretched beneath the tree. End of a Poison Tree. This recording is in the public domain. Prometheus, by Lord Byron. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Read by David Federman. Prometheus, by Lord Byron. Titan, to whose immortal eyes the sufferings of mortality, seen in their sad reality, were not as things that gods despise. What was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering and intense. The rock, the vulture, and the chain. All that the proud can feel of pain. The agony they do not show, the suffocating sense of woe, which speaks but in its loneliness, and then is jealous lest the sky should have a listener, nor will sigh until its voice is echo-less. Titan, to thee the strife was given, between the suffering and the will, which torture where they cannot kill, and the inexorable heaven, and the deft tyranny of fate, the ruling principle of hate, which for its pleasure doth create the things it may annihilate, refused thee even the boon to die. The wretched gift eternity was thine, and thou hast borne it well. All that the thunderer wrung from thee, was but the menace which flung back, on him the torments of thy rack. The fate thou did so well foresee, but would not to appease him tell. And in thy silence was his sentence, and in his soul a vain repentance, and evil dread so ill-dissembled, that in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy godlike crime was to be kind, to render with thy precepts less, the sum of human wretchedness, and strengthen man with his own mind, but baffled as thou wert from high. Still, in thy patient energy, in the endurance and repulse of thine impenetrable spirit, which heaven and earth could not convulse, a mighty lesson we inherit. Thou art a symbol and a sign, to mortals of their fate and force. Like thee, man is in part divine, a troubled stream from a pure source, and man in portions can foresee his own funerial destiny, his wretchedness and his resistance, and his sad, unallied existence, to which his spirit may oppose itself, and equal to all woes, and a firm will and a deep sense, which even in torture can describe its own concentred recompense, triumphant where it dares defy, and making death a victory. End of Prometheus This recording is in the public domain. The Origin of Trades by Voltaire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Federman. The Origin of Trades by Voltaire When with a skillful hand, Prometheus made a statue that the human form displayed. Pandora, his own work to wed he chose, and from those two the human race arose. When first to know herself the fair began, she played her smiles enchantment upon man. By softness and alluring speech she gained, the ascendant and her master soon enchained. Her beauty on Prometheus's sense ne'er paled, and the first husband was the first enthralled. The god of war soon saw the new formed fair, his manly beauty and his martial air, his golden cask and all his glittering arms. Pandora pleased, and he enjoyed her charms. When the sea's ruler in his humid court had heard of this intrigue from Thames' report, the fair he sought a like reception found, could Neptune fail where Mars a triumph found. Day's light haired God from his resplendent height, their pleasures saw and hoped the same delight. She could not to refuse him have the heart, who o'er the day presides and every art. Mercury with eloquence declared his flame, and in his turn he triumphed o'er the day. Squalid and sooty from his forge, at first Vulcan was ill-received and gave disgust. But he by importunity obtained, what other gods with so much ease had gained. Pandora's primeless winged with pleasure flew, then she in Langer lived, nor wherefore new. She that devotes to love her life's first spring, as years increase can do no other thing. For in to gods, inconstancy is known, and those who dwell in heaven to change are prone. Pandora of her favors had been free, to gods who left her happening then to see. A satyr who through planes and meadows strayed, smith with his mean, she loved vances made. To these amours our race existence owes, from such amusements all mankind arose. Hence those varieties and talents spring, ingenious passions, business, everything. To Vulcan one, to Mars one owes his birth, this to a satyr, very few on earth. Claim any kindred with the god of day, few that celestial origin display. From parents each his taste and turn derives, but most of all trades, now Pandora's thrives. The most delightful, though least rare it seems, and is the trade, all Paris most is Steens. End of the origin of trades. This recording is in the public domain. The Copernican system by Thomas Chatterton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Federman. The Copernican system by Thomas Chatterton. The sun revolving on his axis turns, and with creative fire intensely burns. Impelled by force of air, our earth supreme rolls with the planets round the solar gleam. First Mercury completes his transient year. Glowing, refulgent, with reflected glare. Bright Venus occupies a wider way, the early harbinger of night and day. More distant still, our globed, her aqueous turns, nor chills intense, nor fiercely heated burns. Around her rolls the lunar orb of light, trailing her silver glories through the night. On the earth's orbit see the various signs, mark where the sun our year completing shines. First the bright ram, his languid ray improves. Next glaring watery throw, the bull he moves. The amorous twins admit his genial ray, now burning through the crab he takes his way. The lion flaming bears the solar power, the virgin faints beneath the sultry shower. Now the just balance weighs his equal force, the slimy serpent swelters in his course. The sabled archer clouds his languid face, the goat with tempest urges on his race. Now in the water his faint beams appear, and the cold fishes end the circling year. Beyond our glow the sanguine Mars displays, a strong reflection of primeval rays. Next belted Jupiter far distant gleams, scarcely enlightened with the solar beams. With four unfixed receptacles of light, he tours majestic through the spacious height, but farther yet the tardy Saturn lags, and five attendant luminaries drags. Investing with a double ring his pace, he circles through immensity of space. These are thy wondrous works, first source of good, now more admired in being understood. End of the Copernican system. This recording is in the public domain. A portrait addressed to Mrs. Crew with the comedy of the school for scandal. By Richard Brinsley Sheridan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Rhonda Federman. A portrait addressed to Mrs. Crew with the comedy of the school for scandal. By Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Tell me ye prim adepts in scandal school who rail by precept and detract by rule. Lives there no character so tried, so known, so decked with grace and so unlike your own, that even you assist her fame to raise, approve by envy and by silent praise? Attend. A model shall attract your view. Daughters of Calumny, I summon you. You shall decide if this is a portrait prove or a fond creation of the muse and love. Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage, ye matron censors of this childish age, whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare a fixed antipathy to young and fair. By cunning cautious or by nature cold, in maiden madness virulently bold. Attend, ye skilled to coin the precious tale, creating proof wherein Uendos fell, whose practiced memory is cruelly exact, omit no circumstance except the fact. Attend, all ye who boast or old or young, the living libel of the slanderous tongue. So shall my theme as far contrasted be, as saints by fiends or hymns by Calumny. Come, gentle amoret, forneath that name, in worthier verses sung thy beauty's fame. Come, for but thee who seeks the muse, and while celestial blushes check thy conscious smile, with timid grace and hesitating eye the perfect model which I boast supply, vain muse, couldst thou the humblest sketch create of her or slightest charm could stimitate? Could thy blessed strain in kindred colors trace the faintest wonder of her form and face? Poets would study the immortal line, and Reynolds own his art subdued by thine, that art which well might add at lustre give, to nature's best and heaven's superlative. On Granby's cheek might bid new glories rise, or point a purer beam from Devon's eyes. Hard is the task to shape that beauty's praise, whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays. But praising amoret we cannot air, no tongue or values heaven or flatters her. Yet she by fates perverseness she alone would doubt our truth, nor deems such praise her own. Adorning fashion, unadorned by dress, simple from taste, and not from carelessness, discreet in gesture, in deportment mild, not stiff with prudence nor uncouthly wild. No state has amoret, no studied mean. She frowns no goddess, and she moves no queen. The softer charm that in her manner lies is framed to captivate, yet not surprise. It justly suits the expression of her face, tis less than dignity, and more than grace. On her pure cheek the native hue is such, that formed by heaven to be admired so much, the hand of vine with a less partial care might well have fixed a fainter crimson there, and bade the gentle inmate of her breast, enshrined modesty supply the rest. But who the peril of her lips shall paint? Strip them of smiles, still, still all words are faint. But moving love himself appears to teach their action, though denied to rule her speech. And thou who seized her speak, and dost not hear, more not her distant accents scape thine ear. Viewing those lips, thou still mayst make pretense to judge of what she says and swear, tis sense, clothed with such grace, with such expression fraught. They move in meaning, and they pause in thought. But does thou farther watch, with charmed surprise, the milder resolution of her eyes? Curious to mark how frequent they repose, in brief eclipses and momentary clothes. Ah, cease thou not an ambushed cupid there, too timorous of his charge, with jealous care. Valse and unvalse those beams of heavenly light, too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight? Nor yet such pleasing vengeance spawned to meet, in pardoning dimples hope a safe retreat. What though her peaceful breast should nare allow, subduing frowns to arm her altered brow? By love I swear, and by his gentle wiles, more fatal still the mercy of her smiles. Thus lovely, thus adorned, possessing all, of bright or fair, that can to woman fall. The height of vanity might well be thought prerogative in her, and nature's fault. Yet gentle amorate in mind supreme, as well as charms rejects the vainer theme. And half mistrustful of her beauty's store, she barbs with wit those darts too keen before, read in all knowledge that her sex should reach, though gravel or the muse should deign to teach, fond to improve, nor timorous to discern, how far it is a woman's grace to learn. In Miller's dialect she would not prove, Apollo's priestess, but Apollo's love. Graced by those signs with truth delights to own, the timid blush and mild submitted tone. What air she says though sense appear throughout, displays the tender hue of female doubt. Decked with that charm how lovely wit appears, how graceful science when that robe she wears, such to her talents and her bent of mind, as speak a sprightly heart by thought refined. A taste for mirth, by contemplation schooled, a turn for ridicule, by candor ruled, a scorn of folly which she tries to hide, an awe of talent which she owns with pride. Peace, idle muse, no more thy strain prolong, but yield a theme thy warmest praises wrong. Just to her merit, though thou canst not raise, thy feeble verse, behold, the acknowledged praise, has spread conviction through the envious train, and cast a fatal gloom or scandals rain. And lo, each pallid hag with blistered tongue, mutters assent to all thy zeal has sung, owns all the colors just, the outline true, thee my inspirer, and my model, crew, end of a portrait, this recording is in the public domain. To The Poor by Anna Letitia Barbald This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Rhonda Federman. To The Poor by Anna Letitia Barbald Child of distress, who meets the bitter scorn of fellow men to happier prospects born. Doomed art and nature's various stores to see, flow in full cups of joy, and not for thee. Who ceased the rich to heaven and fate resigned, bear thy afflictions with a patient mind? Whose bursting heart disdains unjust control? Who feels depression's iron in thy soul? Who drags the load of faint and feeble years, whose bread is anguish, and whose water tears? Bear, bear thy wrongs, fulfill thy destined hour, bend thy meek neck beneath the foot of power, but when thou feelst the great deliverer nigh, and thy freed spirit mounting seeks the sky, let no vain fears thy parting hour molest, no whispered terrors shake thy quiet breast. Think not, their threats can work thy future woe, nor deem the Lord above like lords below. So, safe in the bosom of that love repose, by whom the sun gives light, the ocean flows, prepare to meet a father undismayed, nor fear the God whom priests and kings have made, and of to the poor. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Esmeralda Jones. Thee too, modest, dressed maid, when thy fallen stars appear, when in lawn a fire arrayed, sovereign of yon powdered sphere. To thee I chant at close of day, beneath o'er maiden moon thy ray, thrown in sapphire ring supreme, pregnant with celestial juice, on silver wing thy diamond stream, gives what summer hours produce, while viewed in pearl'd earth's rich inlay, beneath o'er maiden moon thy ray. Glad pale scintillan wine-eye sip, breed the flowery leaves among, draught delicious wet my lip, drowned in nectar drunk my song, while tuned to filimel delay, beneath o'er maiden moon thy ray. Due that odorous ointment yields, sweets that western winds disclose, bathing springs more purple'd fields, softs the band that wins the rose, while o'er the myrtle'd lawn's eye stray, beneath o'er maiden moon thy ray. End of moon. This recording is in the public domain. The Garden of Love by William Blake This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, read by Caroline Schumacher. The Garden of Love by William Blake I went to the Garden of Love, of love, and saw what I never had seen. A chapel was built in the midst where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this chapel were shut, and thou shalt not rid over the door. So I turned to the Garden of Love, that many sweet bowers bore, and I saw it was filled with graves and tombstones where flowers should be, and priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, and binding with briars my joys and desires. End of recording. This recording is in the public domain. On Virtue by Phyllis Wheatley This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, read by Rhonda Federman. On Virtue by Phyllis Wheatley O thou bright jewel in my aim, I strive to comprehend thee. Thine own words declare wisdom is higher than a fool can reach. I cease to wonder and no more attempt thine height to explore, or fathom thy profound. But oh my soul, sink not into despair. Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand would now embrace thee, hovers over thine head. Thane would thee heaven-born soul with her converse, then seek, then court her for her promised bliss. O auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread, and lead celestial chastity along. Lo, now her sacred retinue descends, arrayed in glory from the orbs above. Attend me, Virtue, through my youthful years. O leave me not to the false joys of time, but guide my steps to endless life and bliss. Greatness, or goodness, say what I shall call thee, to give me an higher appellation still. Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay. O thou enthroned with cherubs in the realms of day. End of On Virtue. This recording is in the public domain. Songs of Innocence by William Blake This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Joanna Paulusina. Songs of Innocence by William Blake Piping down the valley's wild, piping songs of pleasant glee. On a cloud I saw a child, and he laughing said to me, Pipe a song about a lamb, so I piped with merry cheer. Piper piped that song again, so I piped, he wept to hear. Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, sing thy songs of happy cheer. So I sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear. Piper sit thee down and write in a book that all may read. So he vanished from my sight, and I plucked a hollow read. And I made a rural pen, and I stained the water clear. And I wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear. End of Songs of Innocence This recording is in the public domain. Without Distinction by Major Henry Livingston This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Joanna Paulusina. Without Distinction by Major Henry Livingston Without Distinction, fame or note, upon the tide of life I float, a bubble almost lost to sight, as cobweb frail, as vapor light, and yet within that bubble lies, a spark of life which never dies. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. Hills of Home by Witter Beiner This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Joanna Paulusina. Hills of Home by Witter Beiner Name me no names for my disease, with uniforming breath. I tell you I am none of these, but homesick unto death. Homesick for hills that I had known, for brooks that I had crossed, before I met this flesh and bone and followed and was lost. And though they break my heart at last, yet name no name of hills, say only here is where he passed, seeking again those hills. End of Hills of Home This recording is in the public domain. Young and Old by Charles Kingsley This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Joanna Paulusina Young and Old by Charles Kingsley When all the world is young lad, and all the trees are green, and every goose a swan lad, and every lass a queen, then hay for boot and horse lad, and round the world away, young blood must have its course lad, and every dog his day. When all the world is old lad, and all the trees are brown, and all the sport is stale lad, and all the wheels run down, creep home and take your place there, the spent and maimed among, God grant you find one face there you loved when all was young. End of Young and Old This recording is in the public domain. The Nightingale and the Glow Worm by William Cowper Read for LibriVox.org by Carol Stripling A nightingale that all day long had cheered the village with his song, nor yet at eve his note suspended, nor yet when even tide was ended, began to feel, as well he might, the keen demands of appetite. When, looking eagerly around, he spied far off upon the ground, a something shining in the dark, and knew the glow worm by his spark. So, stooping down from Hawthorne Top, he thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, harangued him thus right eloquent. Did you admire my lamp? Quote he, as much as I your minstrelsy, you would abhor to do me wrong as much as I to spoil your song, for twas the self-same power divine taught you to sing and me to shine. That you, with music, I, with light, might beautify and cheer the night. The songster heard his short oration, and, warbling out his approbation, released him, as my story tells, and found a supper somewhere else. End of The Nightingale and the Glow Worm by William Cowper This recording is in the public domain. Had I a heart for falsehood framed? by Richard Brinsley Sheridan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Fetterman. Had I a heart for falsehood framed? by Richard Brinsley Sheridan Had I a heart for falsehood framed? I nair could injure you, for though your tongue no promise claimed, your charms would make me true. To you no soul shall bear deceit, no stranger offer wrong, but friends in all the aged you'll meet, and lovers in the young. For when they learn that you have blessed another with your heart, they'll bid aspiring passion rest, and act a brother's part. Then, lady, dread not hear deceit, nor fear to suffer wrong, for friends in all the aged you'll meet, and lovers in the young. End of Had I a heart for falsehood framed? This recording is in the public domain. Solitude by Alexander Pope This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Rhonda Fetterman. Solitude by Alexander Pope Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound content to breathe his native air in his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, whose flocks supply him with attire, whose trees in summer yield shade, in winter, fire. Blessed who can unconcernedly find hours, days, and years slide soft away in health of body, peace of mind, quiet by day. Sound sleep by night, study and ease, together mixed, sweet recreation and innocence which most does please with meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, thus unlamented, let me die. Steal from the world, and not a stone, tell where I lie. End of Solitude This recording is in the public domain. If Lawyer's Hand is Feed by John Gay This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Rhonda Fetterman. If Lawyer's Hand is Feed by John Gay A fox may steal your hens, sir, a whore your health and pence, sir. Your daughter rob your chest, sir. Your wife may steal your rest, sir. A thief your goods and plate. But this is all but picking, with rest, pence, chest, and chicken. It ever was decreed, sir, if Lawyer's Hand is Feed, sir. He steals your whole estate. End of If Lawyer's Hand is Feed This recording is in the public domain. An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog by Oliver Goldsmith This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Rhonda Fetterman. An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog by Oliver Goldsmith Good people all of every sort, give ear unto my song. And if you find it wondrous short, it cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man of whom the world might say that still a godly race he ran, when air he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, to comfort friends and foes. The naked every day he clad, when he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be. Both mongrel, puppy, welp, and hound, and curse of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends, but when a peak began the dog to gain his private ends went mad and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets the wondering neighbors ran, and swore the dog had lost his wits to bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad to every Christian eye. And while they swore the dog was mad, they swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light that showed the rogues they lied. The man recovered of the bite, the dog it was, that died. End of an elegy on the death of a mad dog. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet One by Anna Seward This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Rhonda Federman. Sonnet One by Anna Seward When life's realities the soul perceives. Vein, dull, perchance corrosive. If she glows with rising energy and open throes the golden gates of genius, she achieves his fairy climb delighted and receives in those gay paths decked with the thornless rose, blessed compensation. Low with altered brows lours the false world and the fine spirit grieves. No more young hope tints with her light and bloom the darkening scene. Then to ourselves we say, Come, bright imagination, come. Reloom thy orient lamp, with compensating ray shine on the mind and pierce its gathering gloom with all the fires of intellectual day. End of Sonnet One. This recording is in the public domain. To Ruin by Robert Burns This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Rhonda Federman. To Ruin by Robert Burns All hail, inexorable lord, at whose destruction breathing word the mightiest empires fall. Thy cruel woe-delighted train the ministers of grief and pain, a sullen welcome, all. With stern resolve, despairing eye, I see each aim dart, for one has cut my dearest tie and quivers in my heart. Then lowering and pouring the storm, no more I dread, though thickening and blackening round my devoted head. And thou grim power by life abhorred, while life a pleasure can afford. Oh, hear a wretches' prayer. No more I shrink appalled, afraid. I court, I beg thy friendly aid to close this scene of care. When shall my soul in silent peace resign life's joyless day? My weary heart its throbbing cease, cold moldering in the clay. No fear more, no tear more, to stain my lifeless space, enclasped and grasped within thy cold embrace. End of To Ruin. This recording is in the public domain. A Mathematical Problem Inverse by Benjamin Banneker. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Fetterman. A Mathematical Problem Inverse by Benjamin Banneker. A cooper and divinter set down for a talk, both being so groggy that neither could walk. Says cooper divinter, I'm the first of my trade. There is no kind of vessel but what I have made. And of any shape, sir, just what you will. Hand of any size, sir, from a ton to a gill. Then, says the divinter, you're the man for me. Make me a vessel if we can agree. The top and the bottom diameter define to bear that proportion as fifteen to nine. Thirty-five inches are just what I crave. No more and no less in the depth will I have. Just thirty-nine gallons this vessel must hold. Then I will reward you with silver or gold. Give me your promise, my honest old friend. I'll make it tomorrow that you may depend. So the next day the cooper, his work to discharge, soon made the new vessel but made it too large. He took out some stabs which made it too small, and then cursed the vessel the vinter and all. He beat on his breast by the powers he swore. He never would work at his trade any more. Now, my worthy friend, find out if you can, the vessel's dimensions and comfort the man. End of a mathematical problem inverse. This recording is in the public domain. The Glove by Friedrich Schiller. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by David Federman. The Glove by Friedrich Schiller. Before his lion court, impatient for the sport, King Francis sat one day. The peers of his realm sat around, and in balcony high from the ground, set the ladies in beauteous array. And when, with his finger he beckoned, the gate opened wide in a second, and in, with deliberate tread, enters a lion dread, and looks around, yet udders no sound. Then long he yawns and shakes his mane, and stretching each limb, down he lies again. Again signs the King. The next gate open flies, and low, with a wild spring, a tiger out highs. When the lion he sees loudly roars he about, and a terrible circle his tail traces out, protruding his tongue past the lion he walks, and snarling with rage round him, warily stalks. Then growling anew, on one side lies down two. Again signs the King, and two gates open fly, and low, with one spring, two leopards out high. On the tiger they rush, for the fight nothing loath, but he with his paws sees his hold of them both, and the lion with roaring gets up, and then all still. The fierce beasts stalk around, madly thirsting to kill. From the balcony raised high above, a fair hand lets fall down a glove, into the lists, or at his scene, the lion and tiger between. To the night, sir, delorges in tone of jest, then speaks young, conigunned, fair. Sir Knight, if the love that thou feel'st in thy breast is as warmed as thou art want at each moment to swear, pick up, I pray thee, the glove that lies there. And the night, in a moment with dauntless tread, jumps into the lists, nor seeks to linger, and from out of the mists of those monsters dread, picks up the glove with the daring finger. And the nights and the ladies of high degree, with wonder and horror the action see, while he quietly brings in his hand the glove, the praise of his courage each mouth employs, meanwhile with a tender look of love, the promise to him of coming joys. Fair conigunned welcomes him back to his place, but he through the glove point blank in her face, Lady, no thanks from thee I'll receive. And that self-same hour he took his leave. End of the glove. This recording is in the public domain. Little lamb, who made thee? Does thou know who made thee? Gave thee life and bid thee feed by the stream and o'er the mead. Gave thee clothing of delight, softest clothing woolly bright. Gave thee such a tender voice, making all the veils rejoice. Little lamb, who made thee? Does thou know who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee. Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, for he calls himself a lamb. He is meek, and he is mild. He became a little child. I, a child, and thou a lamb. We are called by his name. Little lamb, God bless thee. Little lamb, God bless thee. End of the lamb. This recording is in the public domain. Light Shining Out of Darkness by William Cowper This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Carol Struplane. Light Shining Out of Darkness by William Cowper God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea and rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable minds of never-failing skill, he treasures up his bright designs and works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take. The clouds ye so much dread are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace. Behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour. The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err and scan his work in vain. God is his own interpreter, and he will make it plain. End of Light Shining Out of Darkness This recording is in the public domain. Our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home. Under the shadow of thy throne, thy saints have dwelt secure. Sufficient is thine arm alone, and our defense is sure. Before the hills in order stood, or earth received her frame. From everlasting thou art good, to endless years the same. Thy word commands are flesh to dust, return ye sons of men. All nations rose from earth at first, and turned to earth again. A thousand ages in thy sight are like an evening gone, short as the watch that ends the night before the rising sun. The busy tribes of flesh and blood, with all their lives and cares, are carried downward by thy flood, and lost in following years. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away. Thy fly forgotten as a dream dies at the opening day. Like flowery fields the nations stand, pleased with the morning light. The flowers beneath the mower's hand lie withering air-