work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
5612,"",Reading,2003-07-29 00:00:00 UTC,"O, Montagu! forgive me, if I sing
Thy wisdom tempered with the milder ray
Of soft humanity, and kindness bland:
So wide its influence, that the bright beams
Reach the low vale where mists of ignorance lodge,
Strike on the innate spark which lay immersed,
Thick-clogged, and almost quenched in total night--
On me it fell, and cheered my joyless heart.
Unwelcome is the first bright dawn of light
To the dark soul; impatient, she rejects,
And fain would push the heavenly stranger back;
She loathes the cranny which admits the day;
Confused, afraid of the intruding guest;
Disturbed, unwilling to receive the beam,
Which to herself her native darkness shows.
The effort rude to quench the cheering flame
Was mine, and e'en on Stella could I gaze
With sullen envy, and admiring pride,
Till, doubly roused by Montagu, the pair
Conspire to clear my dull, imprisoned sense,
And chase the mists which dimmed my visual beam.
Oft as I trod my native wilds alone,
Strong gusts of thought would rise, but rise to die;
The portals of the swelling soul ne'er oped
By liberal converse, rude ideas strove
Awhile for vent, but found it not, and died.
Thus rust the Mind's best powers. Yon starry orbs,
Majestic ocean, flowery vales, gay groves,
Eye-wasting lawns, and heaven-attempting hills
Which bound th' horizon, and which curb the view;
All those, with beauteous imagery, awaked
My ravished soul to ecstasy untaught,
To all the transport the rapt sense can bear;
But all expired, for want of powers to speak;
All perished in the mind as soon as born,
Erased more quick than cyphers on the shore,
O'er which cruel waves, unheedful roll.
Such timid rapture as young Edwin seized,
When his lone footsteps on the Sage obtrude,
Whose noble precept charmed his wondering
Such rapture filled Lactilla's vacant soul,
When the bright Moralist, in softness dressed,
Opes all the glories of the mental world,
Deigns to direct the infant thought, to prune
The budding sentiment, uprear the stalk
Of feeble fancy, bid idea live,
Woo the abstracted spirit form its cares,
And gently guide her to scenes of peace.
Mine was than balm, and mine the grateful heart,
Which breathes its thanks in rough, but timid strains.
(ll. 30-79, pp. 395-6)",,14996,•I've included all the stanzas but the first because of the density of metaphors (8 entries total).,"""Thus rust the Mind's best powers.""",Metal,2013-11-17 17:03:58 UTC,""
5613,"",Reading,2003-08-14 00:00:00 UTC,"A good will is not good because of what it effects or accomplishes, because of its fitness to attain some proposed end, but only because of its volition, that is, it is good in itself and, regarded for itself, is to be valued incomparably higher than all that could merely be brought about by it in favor of some inclination and indeed, if you will, of the sum of all inclinations. Even if, by a special disfavor of fortune or by the niggardly provision of a stepmotherly nature, this will should wholly lack the capacity to carry out its purpose--if with its greatest efforts it should yet achieve nothing and only the good will were left (not, of course, as a mere wish but as the summoning of all means insofar as they are in our control)--then, like a jewel, it would shine by itself, as something that has its full worth in itself. Usefulness or fruitlessness can neither add anything to this worth nor take anything away from it. Its usefulness would be, as it were, only the setting to enable us to handle it more conveniently in ordinary commerce or to attract to it the attention of those who are not yet expert enough, but not to recommend it to experts or to determine its worth.
(4:394, p. 50)",,15001,"• Reading: my reading group preparation (for Fichte)
•Moving toward the proposition that the highest good is a will that is good in itself.
•Nature may be the will's stepmother?
•The simile is extended in what follows: usefulness is this jewel's setting. The setting attracts notice to the jewel and allows us ot handle it more conveniently.","""Even if, by a special disfavor of fortune or by the niggardly provision of a stepmotherly nature, this will should wholly lack the capacity to carry out its purpose--if with its greatest efforts it should yet achieve nothing and only the good will were left (not, of course, as a mere wish but as the summoning of all means insofar as they are in our control)--then, like a jewel, it would shine by itself, as something that has its full worth in itself.""","",2011-12-21 18:31:24 UTC,Section 1
5614,"",HDIS,2003-12-18 00:00:00 UTC,"How various his employments, whom the world
Calls idle, and who justly in return
Esteems that busy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoyed at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad:--
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much to enjoy?
Me therefore, studious of laborious ease,
Not slothful; happy to deceive the time
Not waste it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When He shall call his debtors to account,
From whom are all our blessings, business finds
Even here. While sedulous I seek to improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd
The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By causes not to be divulged in vain,
To its just point the service of mankind.
He that attends to his interior self,
That has a heart and keeps it, has a mind
That hungers and supplies it, and who seeks
A social, not a dissipated life,
Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve
No unimportant, though a silent task.
A life all turbulence and noise may seem
To him that leads it, wise and to be praised;
But wisdom is a pearl with most success
Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in storms,
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.
(Bk. III, ll. 352-85, pp. 171-2)",,15014,•See the little parable Cowper fits into the lines that close this stanza. This is sort of figuration almost belongs to 'Weather'. ,"Wisdom is a pearl ""with most success / Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies""","",2009-09-14 19:42:33 UTC,""
5614,"",HDIS,2003-12-18 00:00:00 UTC,"So manifold, all pleasing in their kind,
All healthful, are the employs of rural life,
Reiterated as the wheel of time
Runs round, still ending, and beginning still.
Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll
That softly swell'd and gaily dress'd, appears
A flowery island from the dark green lawn
Emerging, must be deemed a labour due
To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste.
Here also grateful mixture of well match'd
And sorted hues, (each giving each relief,
And by contrasted beauty shining more,)
Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade,
May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home,
But elegance, chief grace the garden shows
And most attractive, is the fair result
Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind.
Without it, all is Gothic as the scene
To which the insipid citizen resorts
Near yonder heath; where industry mispent,
But proud of his uncouth ill-chosen task,
Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons
Of close-ramm'd stones has charged the incumber'd soil,
And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.
He therefore who would see his flowers disposed
Sightly and in just order, ere he gives
The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds
Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene
Shall break into its preconceived display,
Each for itself, and all as with one voice
Conspiring, may attest his bright design.
Nor even then, dismissing as perform'd
His pleasant work, may he suppose it done.
Few self-supported flowers endure the wind
Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid
Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied
Are wedded thus like beauty to old age,
For interest sake, the living to the dead.
Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused
And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair,
Like virtue, thriving most where little seen.
Some more aspiring catch the neighbour shrub
With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch
Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon
And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well
The strength they borrow with the grace they lend.
All hate the rank society of weeds
Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust
The impoverish'd earth; an overbearing race,
That like the multitude made faction-mad
Disturb good order, and degrade true worth.
(Bk. III, ll. 624-674, pp. 178-80)",,15015,"•And a polished mind is a prerequisite to good gardening. The garden described becomes ever more allegorized as ""lowly creeping, modest"" plants thrive, like virtue, ""where little seen"". I've added an entry here in 'Garden'.","The mind may be ""polish'd""","",2009-09-14 19:42:33 UTC,""
5614,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""steel"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-09 00:00:00 UTC,"Where England stretch'd towards the setting sun
Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave,
Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he
Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent,
Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce.
He journey'd, and his chance was as he went,
To join a traveller of far different note,
Evander, famed for piety, for years
Deserving honour, but for wisdom more.
Fame had not left the venerable man
A stranger to the manners of the youth,
Whose face too was familiar to his view.
Their way was on the margin of the land,
O'er the green summit of the rocks whose base
Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high.
The charity that warm'd his heart was moved
At sight of the man-monster. With a smile
Gentle, and affable, and full of grace,
As fearful of offending whom he wish'd
Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths
Not harshly thunder'd forth or rudely press'd,
But like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet.
And dost thou dream, the impenetrable man
Exclaim'd, that me, the lullabies of age
And fantasies of dotards such as thou
Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me?
Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave
Need no such aids as superstition lends
To steel their hearts against the dread of death!
He spoke, and to the precipice at hand
Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks
And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought
Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave.
But though the felon on his back could dare
The dreadful leap, more rational his steed
Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round
Or ere his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge,
Baffled his rider, saved against his will.
The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd
By medicine well applied, but without grace
The heart's insanity admits no cure.
Enraged the more by what might have reform'd
His horrible intent, again he sought
Destruction with a zeal to be destroyed,
With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood.
But still in vain. The providence that meant
A longer date to the far nobler beast,
Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake.
And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere
Incurable obduracy evinced,
His rage grew cool; and pleased perhaps to have earn'd
So cheaply the renown of that attempt,
With looks of some complacence he resumed
His road, deriding much the blank amaze
Of good Evander, still where he was left
Fixt motionless, and petrified with dread.
So on they fared; discourse on other themes
Ensuing, seem'd to obliterate the past,
And tamer far for so much fury shown,
(As is the course of rash and fiery men,)
The rude companion smiled as if transform'd.
But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near,
An unsuspected storm. His hour was come.
The impious challenger of power divine
Was now to learn, that Heaven though slow to wrath,
Is never with impunity defied.
His horse, as he had caught his master's mood,
Snorting, and starting into sudden rage,
Unbidden, and not now to be controul'd,
Rush'd to the cliff, and having reach'd it, stood.
At once the shock unseated him. He flew
Sheer o'er the craggy barrier, and immersed
Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not,
The death he had deserved, and died alone.
So God wrought double justice; made the fool
The victim of his own tremendous choice,
And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.",,15072,"","""Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave / Need no such aids as superstition lends / To steel their hearts against the dread of death!""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:42:41 UTC,""
5638,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""steel"" in HDIS (Drama)",2005-06-13 00:00:00 UTC,"While in high life our hearts the fashions steel,
Too gay to listen, and too fine to feel--
Honest John Bull--before a sturdy elf--
Now claims no right of judging for himself;
To Puffs from Theatres gives up his vote,
And kindly thinks all true--because 'tis wrote;
For when no plaudits strike our duller ear,
The papers hear a voice we cannot hear--
And when for seats no beauties disagree,
They see a croud, alas! we cannot see;
--And while you clamber o'er the empty rows,
In sweet ADVERTISEMENT--the House o'erflows!
Puff is the word: where fame is not a breath,
--How many an Actress Puff has sav'd from death!
And Actors for whom Mutes were full enough,
Have risen Alexanders--from a Puff!
While generous paragraphs all-lavish give
Sums Total, which our Treasurers ne'er receive.",,15073,"","""While in high life our hearts the fashions steel, / Too gay to listen, and too fine to feel--""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:42:42 UTC,Back Matter
5639,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""dross"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-07-19 00:00:00 UTC,"Who would the image of his lord retrieve,
Partake His nature, and His mind receive,
Must ask in faith, not doubting or afraid
To plead the promise that Himself hath made:
Yet patient wait, till grace his will subdue,
The fire his dross, the spirit his heart renew:
Dead to his own, as in the world's esteem,
He fits the cross, as that now fitteth him;
Where, stretch'd at length, he shall a conqueror die,
Entomb with Him, and then remount the sky!",,15074,"","""Yet patient wait, till grace his will subdue, / The fire his dross, the spirit his heart renew:""","",2009-09-14 19:42:42 UTC,I've included the entire poem
5647,"","Searching ""soul"" and ""Brass"" in HDIS (Poetry); found again, ""pence;"" confirmed in ECCO.
",2005-06-07 00:00:00 UTC,"In that snug room, the scene of shrewd remark,
Whose window stares upon the saunt'ring park;
Where many a hungry bard, and gambling sinner,
In chop-fall'n sadness, counts the trees for dinner
In that snug room where any man of spunk
Would find it a hard matter to get drunk;
Where coy Tokay ne'er feels a cooks embraces,
Nor port nor claret show their rosy faces;
But where old Adam's beverage flows with pride,
From wide-mouth'd pitchers, in a plenteous tide;
Where veal, pork, mutton, beef, and fowl, and fish,
All club their joints to make one handsome dish;
Where stew-pan covers serve for plates, I ween,
And knives and forks and spoons are never seen;
Where pepper issues from a paper bag,
And for a cruet stands a brandy cag;
Where Madam Schwellenberg too often sits,
Like some old tabby in her mousing fits,
Demurely squinting with majestic mien,
To catch some fault to carry to the queen:
In that snug room, like those immortal Greeks,
Of whom, in book the thirteenth, Ovid speaks--
Around the table, all with sulky looks,
Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks:
At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes,
The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose;
Like Paul at Athens, very justly sainted,
And by the charming brush of Raphael painted,
With out-stretch'd hands, and energetic grace,
He fearless thus harangues the roasting race;
Whilst gaping round, in mute attention, sit,
The poor forlorn disciples of the spit:
'Cooks, scullions, hear me ev'ry mother's son--
Know that I relish not this royal fun:
George thinks us scarcely fit ('tis very clear)
To carry guts, my brethren, to a bear.'--
'Guts to a bear!' the cooks, up-springing, cry'd--
'Guts to a bear,' the major loud reply'd.
'Guts to the dev'l!' loud roar'd the cooks again,
And toss'd their noses high in proud disdain:
The plain translation of whose pointed noses
The reader needeth not, the bard supposes;
But if the reason some dull reader looks,
'Tis this--whatever kings may think of cooks,
Howe'er crown'd heads may deem them low-born things,
Cooks are possess'd of souls as well as kings.
Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!)
Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham,
Adulterated brass--base stuff--abhorr'd--
That never can pass current with the Lord;
And think because of wealth they boast a store,
With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor:
Witness the story that my Muse, with tears,
Relates, O reader, to thy shrinking ears:
(cf. pp. 27-9 in 1787 edition)",2012-06-27,15095,"•Do these belong in Mineral or Uncategorized?
•INTEREST. USE in Entry
•Footnotes give, ""1. The larder. 2. This will be deemed strange by my country readers--but it is nevertheless true.""
• Reviewed 2007-04-26","""Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!) / Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham, / Adulterated brass--base stuff--abhorr'd-- / That never can pass current with the Lord; / And think because of wealth they boast a store, / With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor.""",Coinage,2014-03-03 18:24:27 UTC,Canto II
5651,"","Searching ""iron"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-07 00:00:00 UTC,"But if (which Pow'rs above prevent)
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended, in his grim advances,
By sad mistakes, and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your 'humble servant' then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!
While recollection's pow'r is giv'n,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of Fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender-gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear;
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand--my Friend and Brother!",,15103,"","""But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) / That iron-hearted carl, Want, / Attended, in his grim advances, / By sad mistakes, and black mischances""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:42:46 UTC,""
5652,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""iron"" in HDIS (Poetry",2005-06-07 00:00:00 UTC,"MEGARA.
'Say, whence those Looks that tell so dire a Tale,
'The Groan so wasting, and the Cheek so pale?
'Is it thy tortur'd Offspring to survey?
'To see a Fawn upon a Lion prey?
'To see a worthless Wretch torment thy Son?
'Ye Gods! what Evil hath Megara done?
'Immortals! have I merited your Scorn?
'Ah me, to adverse Fate untimely born!
'Who, who so curs'd! E'er since the Hour he led
'Me, a fond Virgin, to the nuptial Bed,
'Dear have I ever priz'd him as these Eyes,
'And, still adoring, from my Soul I prize!
'But ah, my matchless Lord was doom'd to share
'Such bitter Draughts, amid his every Care,
'As from the Cup of Sorrow seem to flow,
'Deeper than any Dregs of mortal Woe!
'Wretch! on his Children--his own Flesh he flew,
'And with Apollo's Darts in Frenzy slew!
'Fates--Furies rather the dire Darts supplied!--
'Slain by their Sire before these Eyes they died!
'Oh how they ask'd (and never Dream display'd
'So dread a Scene) their helpless Mother's Aid!
'Alas (I hear each dying Echo still)
'These Hands had vainly cross'd the insuperable Ill.
'But as a hapless Bird her Young bewails,
'That, yet unfledg'd, a cruel Snake assails
''Mid the thick Copse; around her Offspring flies,
'And twitters in shrill Notes her plaintive Cries;
'Not venturing near--too weak to bring Relief--
'Yet hovering in an Agony of Grief--
'So (my poor Offspring fall'n in early Bloom)
'I ran all frantic thro' the blood-stain'd Dome.
'O Dian, Sovereign of the female World,
'Had but thy Hand the Dart in Pity hurl'd;
'Its Poison to this wasting Bosom sped,
'And struck me on my slaughter'd Children dead--
'Then had my Parents the last Office paid,
'And on one Pile the breathless Relics laid!
'Then weeping had they seen our Bodies burn,
'Clos'd the pale Ashes in one common Urn,
'And kindly, to compleat the Rites of Death,
'Buried, where first we drew our vital Breath.
'Now where Aonia boasts her fertile Soil,
''Mid Theban Steeds they urge the rural Toil.
'But I, at Tiryns, Juno's sacred Seat,
'Feel many a Sorrow in my Bosom beat:
'Each Day one melancholy Blank appears,
'And brings no Respite--to eternal Tears!
'Yet soon these Eyes shall hail my hapless Lord
'To his own Roof (tho' transiently) restor'd!
'For many a Labor must he still sustain,
'Rove the rough Earth, and pass the stormy Main;
'While in his Breast he bears, to Fear unknown,
'A rigid Heart of Iron or of Stone!
'But thou, like Water, art dissolv'd away--
'Thy Sorrows flow by Night--nor cease by Day!
'Of all my Friends thou only hast the Power
'To gild with Comfort's Ray the darksome Hour!
'They--they beyond the pine-rob'd Isthmus dwell!--
'Nor, as a hapless Woman, can I tell
'My Griefs; or to one soothing Friend impart
'(Except my Sister Pyrrha) my full Heart!
'She pines too for her Iphiclus--thy Son--
'And sure dire Ills thro' all thy Lineage run,
'Still tortur'd, whether first their Lives began
'From Gods their deathless Sires, or mortal Man.'",,15104,"","""'While in his Breast he bears, to Fear unknown, / 'A rigid Heart of Iron or of Stone!""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:42:47 UTC,The Idyllia of Moschus