Posts tagged ‘excerpt’

Friday, 6 September 2019

Excerpt from “Of our Iosse by Adam, and our gayne by Christ; The first Adam was made a living soule, the second Adam a quickning Spirit; For as in Adam wee all dye, so in Christ, shall all be made alive. I Corinth. 15” by Alice Sutcliffe

Alas how many are the snares and bayts,
Which Sathan layes, our poore soules to betray,
Hiena like, he murthers by deceites,
Through false delights to cause us misse our way,
His Mermaides Songs are onely sweet in sound,
Approach them not, lest Death thy Iife doth wound.

Therefore the safest way unto our blisse,
Is meditation of our certaine Death
And though we tread the steps of carefulness,
And all our life in sorrow draw our breath,
The guerdon of our paines our Christ will give
In causing us eternally to live.

Thus by a godly and an upright life,
Man of a deadly foe may make a friend
And by a wise provision stint that strife,
Which Sathan laid to bring us to our end:
And though our flesh prove false, our God is Just,
By death our soule gaines heaven, our body dust.

Be ever vigilant in all thy wayes,
And alwayes live as in the sight of God,
Performe good actions and use no delayes,
Then feare not Death it brings with it no rod:
With care attend that sure uncertainety,
And live, as every howre thou shouldest dye.

This watchfull care wounds Sathan in the head,
For hee that thinkes of Death doth shun all Sinne,
B thought of this man to the world proves dead
He counts all drosse and only Christ would win:
No earthly joyes can cause him life to love,
His Soule it fixt and nothing can him move.

Thus each weake Christian may this tyrant foyle,
For by Christ’s Death man armed is with strength,
Though in this Combate he a while may toyle,
But Faith in Christ, gives victory at length;
And with a courage bold, man now may cry
Death where’s thy sting? Grave where’s thy victory?

From: Sutcliffe, Alice, Meditations of Mans Mortalitie; or, A Way to True Blessednesse, 1634, Bernard Alsop and Thomas Fawcett for Henry Seyle: London, pp. 193-196.
(https://archive.org/details/meditationsofman00sutc/)

Date: 1634

By: Alice Sutcliffe (fl. 1634)

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Monday, 19 August 2019

Excerpt from “Satyrus peregrinans” [Westminster Hall] by William Rankins

By this time long-gownd Lumen walkt abroad,
Under his girdle greene-waxt labels hung,
Although his pace was slow, gold was his goad,
And as the Petifogger went, he sung,
His greas’d belt and the waxe together clung:
He sware a mighty oath his writs were spoyld,
And by that meanes his client should be foyld.

I tract his steps, and followed him alloofe,
Weary with those Mecanicke meane deceipts,
At last he entred to a spatious roofe,
Where greatmen sat in high judiciall seates,
And iuglers play at even and odde with feates:
As (now sir it shall goe with you to day,
To morrow tis against you, you must pay.)

This hall they say is builded of such wood,
That cobwebs on the rafters are not spun,
By right the nature of these trees are good,
Yet there be held I mighty spyders run,
And by their sucking little flyes undone:
A thing most strange, that poysoned things must dwell,
Where nature scarce alloweth them a cell.

There stoode Briarius1 with a hundred hands,
And every one was ready to receive,
As many sundry toongs2, as seas have sands:
And when he sayd, the truth I do conceive,
Then meant the hell-hound soonest to deceive.
There saw I twelve good fellowes cald together,
That would for-sweare their father for a feather.

I saw the widdow in a mourning weede,
Wringing her painefull hands to get her right,
Th’oppressed soule tormented with more neede,
And cruelty with scarlet cloth’d in spight,
As who should say, in bloud is my delight.
Then thought I (ôh there is a Judge above)
Will all this wrong with one true sentence move.

Such sweating for base pelfe3, I did behold,
Such perjuries to get the upper hand,
The innocent with falshood bought and sould,
Such circumstance before the truth was scand,
Such scorched conscience markt with Sathans brand,
That straight bereft of my Satyrick wit,
I was possessed with a frantick fit.

So leaving this vast rumor of mans voyce,
I made my run unto a river side,
Where, sinke or swim, I tooke no better choyce,
With desperate leape in, headlong did I glide,
And for I would no more repeate this pride,
I did imagine I was in a dreame,
And so concluded my unorder’d theame.

1.         Briarius (more commonly Briareus, also known as Aegaeon): one of the three gigantic sons of Uranus and Gaia (Heaven and Earth, respectively). All three have a hundred arms and fifty heads.
2.         Toongs: Tongues.
3.         Pelfe: Money, wealth.

From: Rankins, William, Seaven satyres applyed to the weeke including the worlds ridiculous follyes. True fælicity described in the phoenix. Maulgre. Whereunto is annexed the wandring satyre. By W. Rankins, Gent., 2005, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, pp. 33-36.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A10418.0001.001)

Date: 1587

By: William Rankins (fl. 1587)

Wednesday, 7 August 2019

From “Whereas” by Layli Long Soldier

Whereas my eyes land on the statement, “Whereas the arrival of Europeans in North America opened a new chapter in the history of Native Peoples.” In others, I hate the act

of laughing when hurt injured or in cases of danger. That bitter hiding. My daughter picks up
new habits from friends. She’d been running, tripped, slid on knees and palms onto asphalt.

They carried her into the kitchen, She just fell, she’s bleeding! I winced. Deep red streams
down her arms and legs, trails on white tile. I looked at her face. A smile

quivered her. A laugh, a nervous. Doing as her friends do, she braved new behavior—
I can’t name it but I could spot it. Stop, my girl. If you’re hurting, cry. You must

show your feelings so that others know, so that we can help. Like that. She let it out,
a flood from living room to bathroom. Then a soft water pour I washed

carefully light touch clean cotton to bandage. I faced her I reminded, In our home
in our family we are ourselves, real feelings. You can do this with others, be true.
I sent her

off to the couch with a movie encouraging, Take it easy. Yet I’m serious when I say I laugh
reading the phrase, “opened a new chapter.” I can’t help my body. I shake. The sad

realization that it took this phrase to show. My daughter’s quiver isn’t new—
but a deep practice very old she’s watching me.

From: https://pen.org/from-whereas/

Date: 2013

By: Layli Long Soldier (19??- )

Monday, 19 March 2018

Excerpt from “Elegy for Madog ap Maredudd, Prince of Powys” by Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr

Door of a fort he was, companion shield,
Buckler on battlefield, and in brave deeds:
A tumult like flame blazing through heather,
Router of enemies, his shield stopped their way;
Lord sung by a myriad, hope of minstrels,
Crimson, irresistible, unswerving companion.

From: Leoussi, Athena S. and Grosby, Steven (eds.), Nationalism and Ethnosymbolism: History, Culture and Ethnicity in the Formation of Nations, Edinburgh University Press: Edinburgh, p. 86.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=aNuqBgAAQBAJ)

Date: c1160 (original in Welsh); 1967 (translation in English)

By: Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr (fl. c1155-1200)

Translation by: Anthony Conran (1931-2013)

Friday, 9 March 2018

Excerpt from “Khosrow and Shirin” by Nizami Ganjavi (Jamal ad-Dīn Abū Muḥammad Ilyās ibn-Yūsuf ibn-Zakkī)

When Farhad heard this message, with a groan
From the rock-gulley fell he like a stone.
So deep a sigh he heaved that thou wouldst say
A spear had cleft unto his heart its way.
‘Alas, my labour!’ — thus his bitter cry —
‘My guerdon still unwon, in grief I die!
Alas the wasted labour of my youth!
Alas the hope which vain hath proved in truth!
I tunnelled mountain-walls: behold my prize!
My labour’s wasted: here the hardship lies!
I, like a fool, red rubies coveted;
Lo, worthless pebbles fill my hands instead!
What fire is this that thus doth me consume?
What flood is this which hurls me to my doom?
The world is void of sun and moon for me:
My garden lacks its box- and willow-tree.
For the last time my beacon-light hath shone;
Not Shirin, but the sun from me is gone!
The cruel sphere pities no much-tried wight;
On no poor luckless wretch doth grace alight!
Alas for such a sun and such a moon,
Which black eclipse hath swallowed all too soon!
Before the wolf may pass a hundred sheep,
But on the poor man’s lamb ’tis sure to leap.
O’er my sad heart the fowls and fishes weep;
For my life’s stream doth into darkness creep.
Why am I parted from my mistress dear?
Now Shirin’s gone, why should I tarry here?
Without her face should I desire to thrive
‘Twould serve me right if I were boned alive! . . .
Felled to the dust, my cypress quick lies dead:
Shall I remain to cast dust on my head?
My smiling rose is fallen from the tree:
The garden is a prison now to me.
My bird of spring is from the meadow flown,
I, like the thunder-cloud, will weep and groan.
My world-enkindling lamp is quenched for aye:
Shall not my day be turned to night to-day?
My lamp is out, and chilly strikes the gale:
My moon is darkened and my sun is pale.
Beyond Death’s portals Shirin shall I greet,
So with one leap I hasten Death to meet!’
Thus to the world his mournful tale he cried,
For Shirin kissed the ground, and kissing died.

From: Browne, Edward G., A Literary History of Persia, From Firdawsi to Sa’di, Volume 2, 1906, T. Fisher Unwin: London, pp. 405-406.

Date: 1177-1180 (original in Persian); 1906 (translation in English)

By: Nizami Ganjavi (Jamal ad-Dīn Abū Muḥammad Ilyās ibn-Yūsuf ibn-Zakkī) (1141-1209)

Translated by: Edward Granville Browne (1862-1926)

Wednesday, 7 March 2018

Excerpt from “Rhapsody of the Two Capitals (Liangdu Fu)” by Ban Gu

[This passage describes a part of the imperial hunt in the great Shanglin Park outside Chang’an during Former Han.]

And then the Sharpshooters and the Guards of the Gates,
Each with sharp swords and whistling arrows,
Running from their vantage points and hastening in pursuit.
Birds are frightened and fly into silk,
Beasts in their panic run upon spears.
No bolt from a cross-bow fires in vain,
No bowstring draws twice to the mark.
The arrows do not kill singly
But pierce and hit two at a time.
Confusion of movement, a medley of chaos,
Arrows with marker-strings crossing in flight.
A wind of feathers and a rain of blood
Poured on the ground and spread in the sky.
… Snaring lions and leopards,
Roping boars and dragons,
Dragging buffalo and oxen,
Beating down elephants and bear.
Leaping ravines and gullies,
Crossing cliffs and crags,
Striding hill-sides and mountains.
Great boulders overthrown,
Pines and cedars uprooted,
Woods and forests destroyed.
Nothing remains of the grass and the trees,
The birds and the animals have all been killed.

From: https://openresearch-repository.anu.edu.au/html/1885/42048/rap.html

Date: 1st century (original); 2004 (translation)

By: Ban Gu (32-92)

Translated by: Rafe de Crespigny (1936- )

Sunday, 21 January 2018

Excerpt from “Lamiyat al-Ajam (The L-Poem of the Foreigner)” by Abu Esmail Moayed-o-din Hosein-ebn-e-ali Esfahani Togharayi

No kind supporting hand I meet,
But Fortitude shall stay my feet;
No borrowed splendours round me shine,
But Virtue’s lustre all is mine:
A fame unsullied still I boast,
Obscured, concealed, but never lost —
The same bright orb that led the day
Pours from the west his mellowed ray.

Zaura, farewell! No more I see
Within thy walls a home for me;
Deserted, spurned, aside I’m tossed,
As an old sword whose scabbard’s lost:
Around thy walls I seek in vain,
Some bosom that will soothe my pain —
No friend is near to breathe relief,
Or brother to partake my grief.

For many a melancholy day
Through desert vales I’ve wound my way;
The faithful beast whose back I press
In groans laments her lord’s distress;
In every quivering of my spear
A sympathetic sigh I hear;
The camel, bending with his load,
And struggling through the thorny road,
Midst the fatigues that bear him down,
In Hassan’s woes forgets his own; —
Yet cruel friends my wanderings chide,
My sufferings slight, my toils deride.

Once wealth, I own, engrossed each thought;
There was a moment when I sought
The glittering stores Ambition claims
To feed the wants his fancy frames;
But now ’tis past: the changing day
Has snatched my high-built hopes away,
And bade this wish my labours close, —
Give me not riches, but repose.

From: Clouston, W.A., Arabian Poetry for English Readers, 1881, Privately Printed: Glasgow, pp. 153-154.
(https://archive.org/details/arabianpoetryfo00clougoog)

Date: 11th century (original in Persian); 1796 (translation in English)

By: Abu Esmail Moayed-o-din Hosein-ebn-e-ali Esfahani Togharayi (1045-1105)

Translated by: Joseph Dacre Carlyle (1758-1804)

Wednesday, 10 January 2018

Excerpt from “The Kite: Canto III” by Phanuel Bacon

The Glove was wav’d–The steady Engine flew,
Sprung into Air, and lessen’d to the View;
Proudly It Sail’d, on crowding Zephyrs born,
And ev’ry Love was Pilot in his Turn:
DIAN transported too, beheld It fly,
And to the Taper grew Her aking Eye.

But CUPID tim’rous saw It’s Height in Air,
And thought His Bird too Distant from His Care;
‘Twas He The MESSENGER decreed to send,
And wou’d (by Proxy) on His Bird attend:
What better than a Billetdeux may prove,
The Tender Representative of LOVE?
Fo lo! The Maid a gilded Sheet imparts,
That breath’d unfeigned Flames, and real Darts.
Led by the Clue, Its rapid Flight It steers,
And to the Bird, his Airy Summons bears.

Ah! What avail It’s easy-waving Wings?
And Length of Tail, that boasts Successive Acts of Kings!
How frail our Span of Time! How fix’d its Date,
And greatest Works must one Day yield to Fate!
Sleep-breaking Care, Gay Pleasure, and Pale Woe,
Meet in one Stream! and in one Channel flow!
Virtue but like a shining Vapour flies!
And when it brightest Blazes, soonest Dies!

From: Bacon, Phanuel, The Kite. An heroi-comical poem. In three canto’s, 1722, L. Lichfield: Oxford, pp. 28-29.
(http://find.galegroup.com.rp.nla.gov.au/ecco/infomark.do?&source=gale&prodId=ECCO&userGroupName=nla&tabID=T001&docId=CW110248342&type=multipage&contentSet=ECCOArticles&version=1.0&docLevel=FASCIMILE)

Date: 1722

By: Phanuel Bacon (1700-1783)

Tuesday, 9 January 2018

Excerpt from “Palmyra” by John Henry Bright

Movemur, nescio quo pacto, ipsis locis, in quibus eorum, quos admiramur, adsunt vestigial.*

Time, like a mighty river, deep and strong,
In sullen silence rolls his tide along ;
And all that now upborne upon the wave
Ride swiftly on—the monarch and the slave
Shall sink at last beneath the whelming stream,
And all that once was life, become a dream!

Go – look on Greece l her glories long have fled,
Her ancient spirit slumbers with the dead;
Deaf to the call of freedom and of fame,
Her sons are Greeks in nothing but the name!
On Tiber’s banks, beneath their native sky,
The sad remains of Roman greatness lie;
No longer there the list’ning crowds admire
The swelling tones of Virgil’s epic lyre,
Nor conqu’ring Caesar holds resistless sway
O’er realms extended to the rising day.

Yet still to these shall Fancy fondly turn,
Still bid the laurel bloom on Maro’s urn;
From Brutus’s dagger sweep the gath’ring rust,
And call his spirit from its aged dust!
What tho’ each busy scene has ceas’d to live,
It has the charms poetic numbers give;
And ever fresh as ages roll along,
Revives and brightens in the light of song.—

At summer eve, when ev’ry sound is still,
And day-light fades upon the western hill,
And o’er the blue unfathomable way
Heav’n’s starry host in cloudless beauty stray;
What holy joys enamour’d fancy feels
As all the past upon the mem’ry steals!
How soft the tints, how pensive, how sublime,
Each image borrows from the touch of time!
Such winning grace the beauteous vision wears
Seen through the twilight of a thousand years!

Note: The quote is attributed to Atticus by Cicero and translates as: For we are moved in some strange way by the actual places in which traces are present of those whom we love or admire.

From: Cambridge Prize Poems: Being a Collection of the English Poems which have obtained the Chancellor’s Gold Medal in the University of Cambridge, New Edition, considerably enlarged, 1847, Henry Washbourne: New Bridge Street, pp. 120-124.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=nvMSAAAAIAAJ

Date: 1822

By: John Henry Bright (1801-1873)

Saturday, 23 September 2017

Excerpt from “Academia; or The Humours of the University of Oxford” by Alicia Clarke D’Anvers

I intend to give you a Relation,
As prime as any is in the Nation:
The Name of th’ place is—let me see,
Call’d most an end the ‘Versity;
In which same place, as Story tells,
Liv’d once Nine handsome bonny Girls,
Highly in olden Time reputed,
Tho’ now so thawct’d and persecuted;
Schollars belike now can’t abide ‘um,
So that they’re fain to scout and hide ‘um,
Or’s sure as you’re alive they’d beat ‘um;
Out of the place they’d chose to seat ‘um
And they who won’t be seen to maul ‘um,
Revile, bespatter ‘um, or becall ‘um.
E’ne these sly Curs would Strumpets make ‘um,
When e’re they catch ‘um can, or take ‘um,
And pinch ‘um, till they’ve made ‘um sing ye,
The filthy’st stuff as one can bring ye,
The end of all such Rascals wooing,
Proves many a heedless ‘Girle’s undoing:
All these, and twenty more Abuses,
Are daily offer’d to the Muses.
You may perceive, I’me mightily
Disturb’d, they’re us’d so spitefully;
And must confess, where’s no denying,
That I can hardly hold from crying;
But that I mayn’t be seen to bellow,
Like ‘Girl forsaken by a Fellow,
Roar, throw my Snot about, and blubber,
Like School-Boys, or an am’rous Lubber,
I’le lay aside my Bowels yearning,
And talk of Schollars, and their Learning.

From: D’Anvers, Mrs. Alicia, Academia: or, The Humours of the University of Oxford. In Burlesque Verse, 1691, Randal Taylor: London, pp. 1-3.
(http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/danvers/academia/academia.html)

Date: 1691

By: Alicia Clarke D’Anvers (1668-1725)