The poet’s life is often viewed as a lonely one – starving in garrets, pining away for lost loves, moping about the streets of the city looking for Baudelaire-style inspiration – so it should come as little surprise that there have been many classic poems written about solitude and loneliness. . You know me not?Giacomo.My sister, my lost sister!Beatrice.Lost indeed!I see Orsino has talked with you, andThat you conjecture things too horribleTo speak, yet far less than the truth. Never again those rides so gladly shared, So much enjoyed,--in which so much was dared To prove no peril from the gate or brook,-- Need bring the shadow of an anxious look, To mar the pleasant ray of proud surprise That shone from out those dear protecting eyes. 'Tis the postilion's paradise: wheels fly; On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. There as hereOur innocence is as an armèd heelTo trample accusation. I am choked! Enter Bernardo.Bernardo.How gently slumber rests upon her face,Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spentClosing in night and dreams, and so prolonged.After such torments as she bore last night,How light and soft her breathing comes. . 'Twould be endless to tell you the things that he knew,Each a separate fact, undeniably true, But with him or each other they'd nothing to do;No power of combining, arranging, discerning,Digested the masses he learned into learning;There was one thing in life he had practical knowledge for(And this, you will think, he need scarce go to college for),-Not a deed would he do, nor a word would he utter,Till he'd weighed its relations to plain bread and butter.When he left Alma Mater, he practised his witsIn compiling the journals' historical bits,-Of shops broken open, men falling in fits, Great fortunes in England bequeathed to poor printers,And cold spells, the coldest for many past winters,-Then, rising by industry, knack, and address,Got notices up for an unbiased press,With a mind so well poised, it seemed equally made forApplause or abuse, just which chanced to be paid for:From this point his progress was rapid and sure,To the post of a regular heavy reviewer. (much moved).What shall we think, my Lords?Shame on these tears! [The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are departing.Beatrice.I do entreat you, go not, noble guests;What, although tyranny and impious hateStand sheltered by a father's hoary hair?What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbsWho tortures them, and triumphs?

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline Grew friends in this or any other sense, Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: At present I am glad of a pretence To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense; The surest way for ladies and for books To bait their tender, or their tenter, hooks. The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport - The first thing boys like after play and fruit; The middle -aged to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language:- we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. coerced, compell'd, Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins,--A daily plague, which in the aggregate May average on the whole with parturition. Enter Camillo and Bernardo.Camillo.The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent.He looked as calm and keen as is the engineWhich tortures and which kills, exempt itselfFrom aught that it inflicts; a marble form,A rite, a law, a custom: not a man.He frowned, as if to frown had been the trickOf his machinery, on the advocatesPresenting the defences, which he toreAnd threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice:'Which among ye defended their old fatherKilled in his sleep?' . 'There are one or two things I should just like to hint,For you don't often get the truth told you in print; The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders)Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders;Though you ought to be free as the winds and the waves,You've the gait and the manners of runaway slaves;Though you brag of your New World, you don't half believe in it;And as much of the Old as is possible weave in it;Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl,With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl,With eyes bold as Here's, and hair floating free,And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing,Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing,Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass,Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass.Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist,And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste;She loses her fresh country charm when she takesAny mirror except her own rivers and lakes. Also there bin another pious reason For making squares and streets anonymous; Which is, that there is scarce a single season Which doth not shake some very splendid house With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason - A topic scandal doth delight to rouse: Such I might stumble over unawares, Unless I knew the very chastest squares. Who ever yet returnedTo teach the laws of Death's untrodden realm?Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now,Oh, whither, whither?Lucretia.Trust in God's sweet love,The tender promises of Christ: ere night,Think, we shall be in Paradise.Beatrice. not of Heaven's great law of old, That brightest light must fall by deepest shade; Not that they wander hungry, gaunt, and cold, While others in smooth splendours are arrayed; Not that from gardens where they would have strayed You shut them out, as though a miser's gem Lay in the crystal stream or emerald glade, Which they would filch from Nature's diadem; But that you keep no thought, no memory of THEM. it great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.' [The Assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise.First Guest.Oh, horrible! Sometimes life hands us burdens we can't change, but we try anyway, using up a lot of energy and experiencing a lot of pain in the process. The Secret Library: A Book-Lovers’ Journey Through Curiosities of History, The Great War, The Waste Land and the Modernist Long Poem. O, spare! I have sent these men,But in your name, and as at your request,To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.Giacomo.Only to talk?Orsino.The moments which even nowPass onward to to-morrow's midnight hourMay memorize their flight with death: ere thenThey must have talked, and may perhaps have done,And made an end . Boredom is an intricate part of our lives. XIV.In Christ! XII.Yet sometimes, (for the heart of childhood is A thing so pregnant with joy's blessed sun, That all the dismal gloom that round him lies Can scarce suffice to bid its rays begone) In lieu of vain complaint, or peevish moan, A feeble SONG the passing hour will mark! The worst of it is, that his logic's so strong,That of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong;If there is only one, why, he'll split it in two,And first pummel this half, then that, black and blue.That white's white needs no proof, but it takes a deep fellowTo prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow.He offers the true faith to drink in a sieve,-When it reaches your lips there's naught left to believeBut a few silly-(syllo-, I mean,)-gisms that squat 'emLike tadpoles, o'erjoyed with the mud at the bottom. what memory of our having been?Infamy, blood, terror, despair? Let meKiss those warm lips before their crimson leavesAre blighted . Like Keats’s sonnet ‘To Solitude’, this poem was written when the poet was still very young – in Poe’s case, only 21. Interesting Literature is a participant in the Amazon EU Associates Programme, an affiliate advertising programme designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by linking to Amazon.co.uk.

'If our friend, there, who seems a reporter, is doneWith his burst of emotion, why, I will go on,'Said Apollo; some smiled, and, indeed, I must ownThere was something sarcastic, perhaps, in his tone;- 'There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit;A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flitThe electrical tingles of hit after hit;In long poems 'tis painful sometimes, and invites A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes,Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefullyAs if you got more than you'd title to rightfully,And you find yourself hoping its wild father LightningWould flame in for a second and give you a fright'ning.He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre,But many admire it, the English pentameter,And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse,With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse,Nor e'er achieved aught in't so worthy of praise As the tribute of Holmes to the grand _Marseillaise_.You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon;-Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on,Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes,He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Holmes.His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyricFull of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiricIn a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toesThat are trodden upon are your own or your foes'.

Let us all quickly die;And after death, God is our judge, not they;He will have mercy on us.Bernardo.If indeedIt can be true, say so, dear sister mine;And then the Pope will surely pardon you,And all be well.Judge.Confess, or I will warpYour limbs with such keen tortures . And what if I could takeThe profit, yet omit the sin and perilIn such an action? Beatrice,Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youthHast never trodden on a worm, or bruisedA living flower, but thou hast pitied itWith needless tears! He ceased. But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small, To spoil his undertaking or complete, And work away like spirit upon matter, Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. Hide me, O God!Cenci.Then it was I whose inarticulate wordsFell from my lips, and who with tottering stepsFled from your presence, as you now from mine.Stay, I command you-from this day and hourNever again, I think, with fearless eye,And brow superior, and unaltered cheek,And that lip made for tenderness or scorn,Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind;Me least of all. These putrefying limbsShut round and sepulchre the panting soulWhich would burst forth into the wandering air! 'Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen That which humanity may bear, or bear not: 'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze …. upon this weary heart!O, world!

Enter Lucretia.Well; what?

But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires Marvell'd at merit of another nation; The boors cried 'Dang it? 'tis Orsino's step . 'Tis strange,--but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction; if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! We bade her: Now, sing to us.Ay sing to us: we prayed her. . But we die not by wishing; in God's hour, And not our own, do we yield up the power To suffer or enjoy. (Exit Beatrice.

[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice.Savella.Can you suspect who may have murdered him?Bernardo.I know not what to think.Savella.Can you name anyWho had an interest in his death?Bernardo.Alas!I can name none who had not, and those mostWho most lament that such a deed is done;My mother, and my sister, and myself.Savella.

[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice.Orsino.What shall I do?Cenci must find me here, and I must bearThe imperious inquisition of his looksAs to what brought me hither: let me maskMine own in some inane and vacant smile. The grand arcanum's not for men to see all; My music has some mystic diapasons; And there is much which could not be appreciated In any manner by the uninitiated.

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