id,dictionary,theme,reviewed_on,metaphor,created_at,provenance,comments,work_id,text,context,updated_at
14999,Inhabitants,"",2009-12-28,"""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.""",2003-07-29 00:00:00 UTC,Reading,•I've included all the stanzas but the first because of the density of metaphors (8 entries total).,5612,"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)","",2013-11-17 17:09:00 UTC
15036,"","",,"""From shadows thinner than the fleeting night / That floats along the vale, or haply seems / To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest, / (Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.) / How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd / But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!""",2004-07-27 00:00:00 UTC,HDIS (Poetry),"•I've included thrice: Weather, Shadows, Monsters",5619,"Cover'd with laurels, from the northern shore,
A blooming hero came, Arpasia's friend,
Arpasia's lover, whom the deathful din
Of constant action in the sanguine field,
And months of weary march, and years of toil,
Estrang'd not from the maid, whose soverign eye
Gilded his path to glory. Soon as peace
Sent her white doves to close the scene of blood
And bear the branching olive, swift the youth
Hasted to Albion's shore, and anxious sought
The hoarded treasure of his virgin heart.
He sought and found her on the fatal day,
She parted from her Theron; parted soon
To meet again. And tho' Arpasia ne'er
Had lov'd Sophronius (so the youth was call'd)
As women love, who give the maiden heart
In dear exchange of passion, glad she saw
A tender friend, escap'd from ruthless war
Return'd with honour to his native land,
The land he had defended: and her tears
Mix'd with her chaste embraces. Theron then
Quick hastening to Arpasia, instant saw
Rapture that weeps, and blushes that denote
The heart's strong triumph at a treasure sav'd
From the devouring war. Her heart he knew
Lodg'd in his own true bosom, yet he feared,
(Fear still is Love's attendant) that the joy
Thron'd in her eye, and from her rubied lip
Pouring the ardent welcome, might, perchance,
Nourish a dangerous softness, yet he prais'd
Her generous warmth and join'd the glowing zeal.
But when the youth, beneath the self-same roof,
With supplication strong to be receiv'd,
A chosen guest entreated, and his suit
Incautious friendship granted, who can draw
The pangs that seiz'd on Theron? Many a day
He fed in silence on his master griefs,
And bath'd his lonely pillow with his tears,
Far from Arpasia's mansion: Ev'ry friend,
Save she who cou'd administer relief,
Appear'd with comfort in their looks--while she,
(Cold as the marble that receives the drops
Of some pale mourner, at the urn which holds
The sainted ashes of the maid he lov'd)
Remain'd untouched, and while forlorn he lay
Death-sick beneath the chill of her neglect,
Sophronius was her theme. His health, his fame,
His rising fortune, and reward in arms,
Flam'd from her pen, which courted Theron's Muse,
To blazon forth his prowess in the war,
His fair deserts in peace. Yet still she talk'd
Of Friendship's early bonds, and nam'd not Love,
Nor seem'd to know the madness and despair
That rag'd in Theron's bosom, but led on
By Pity's gentle hand--for from the youth,
From change of climate, from fatigues of war,
And the heart's tender tumult, growing still,
That gently Pity claim'd, which the kind fair
(Without a thought that wrong'd the spotless faith,
Plighted to Theron) gave, with soul sincere;
Theron meanwhile believ'd it Love, fond Love enthron'd
Upon the mutual heart, and mad'ning thence,
Exclaim'd, infuriate--""Yes! they both shall fall!
""Since Pity thus can light her savage torch,
""And bind upon her altar, Love himself,
""Love in his turn, shall boast a sacrifice,
""And mark for death his victim!"" Strait he rose,
'Twas the deep noon of night, he strode along,
A poignard snatch'd, and as he reach'd the dome
Of his Arpasia; soften'd at the view
From his torn heart these mournful accents broke:
""Oh had the chance been Theron's, had some maid,
""Bright as the morning star, her virgin heart
""Laid in the circle of these courted arms,
""And breath'd a passion warmer than e'er touch'd
""The breast of woman, tho' Compassion's sigh,
""The tenderest tear that ever Pity shed,
""The truest throb that ever Friendship knew
""Might plead his cause, nor these, nor death itself,
""Shou'd shake his plighted faith to false Arpasia,
""Shou'd shake his faith, ah no! by yonder heav'n
""Not the bright synod of the Gods shou'd draw
""His settled heart aside, tho' to the power
""Of heav'nly beauty, gold shou'd add a charm
""Richer than proud Golconda."" Scarce these words
Burst from his heart, e'en from the opening door
Rush'd forth, with hurrying step and troubled air,
Some one infolded in a thick disguise,
That needed scarce the darkness of the night
To mock discovery. Theron, at the view
Sudden retir'd unseen, and torpid stood
A few sad moments; then, with frantic haste
Pursued--Ah, hell-born Jealousy!
Thou child of Love,
Performing deeds more terrible than hate!
From shadows thinner than the fleeting night
That floats along the vale, or haply seems
To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest,
(Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.)
How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd
But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!
Thence hurling frighted Reason from her throne,
And with her all the charities that wait
To grace her virtuous Court! Theron soon
O'ertook whom he pursu'd, nor doubting ought,
(For Jealousy allows no pause of sense).
It was his happy rival, rais'd his hand,
In which the poignard trembled, and in rage,
To madness, struck the bosom of--Arpasia!
Yes! 'twas Arpasia's self.
The faithful mistress, from her lover's arm,
Thus met her fate utimely, for e'er word,
Cou'd utterance find, the dagger in her breast
Transfix'd she found--""And hast thou kill'd me, Love?""
--Was all she spoke, then died in his embrace.
Upon her Theron's brow pale Horror sate,
""Kill thee!"" he cried--then deep into his heart
Plung'd the fell blade, with poor Arpasia's blood,
Distain'd and reeking--agoniz'd he fell
And kiss'd the wound--expiring in her arms.
","",2018-06-18 15:16:00 UTC
15262,"","",,"""Our mind's unhelm'd, our attributes decay--""",2005-05-31 00:00:00 UTC,Searching in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO,"",5726,"My recollection portrays all the past,
The bliss was sure too exquisite to last:
When Henry's supplication fill'd my days,
And every echo warbled Gabrielle's praise;
Train'd from my reason's dawn in noble deeds,
I sung of Virtue, and I sought her meeds:
My pliant fancy yielded to embrace
Those laws of honor, which upheld my race:
Oh! hesitate, ye generous nymphs, I pray,
Ere ye condemn the tenor of my lay.
Knew ye the sorcery that freights his tale,
Alas, you'd marvel not that men prevail!
A king, a hero, brilliant, wise and great,
Who seems the favor'd delegate of fate;
When such assail the melting virgin's breast,
Love is all-governing, and fear a jest.
With soft solicitude, with matchless charms,
He came, he woo'd, he won me to his arms!
So regal Jove his tender wishes told,
When the high ruler found Alcmena cold--
He swore his love should with his being last,
But scarce was sworn before that love was past:
Such vows, like poppies, mid the golden grain,
Tho' gay, are worthless, tho' alluring, vain:
When Passion's tides thro' mans' strong art'ries roar,
His heart resists them like a flinty shore;
But our frail frames, like mould'ring banks, give way,
Our mind's unhelm'd, our attributes decay--
His bright, his keen, his fascinating eyes,
Like wond'rous basilisks seduce their prize.
Go not, ye nymphs, you'll perish if you gaze,
For necromancy warms their weakest blaze!
If in the vortex of his arts you're found,
Your agency will die, your sense run round.
There Ruin's baneful circles never cease,
Till central potency ingulphs your peace!
(cf. pp. 24-5 in 1788 printing)","",2014-02-26 22:01:47 UTC
16190,Metal,Refinement,,"""'Tis only those of purer clay / 'From sensual dross refined, / 'In whom the passions pleas'd obey / 'The God within the mind, / 'Who share my delegated aid, / 'Through Wisdom's golden mean convey'd / 'From the first source of sov'reign good.""",2005-07-19 00:00:00 UTC,"Searching ""passion"" and ""dross"" in HDIS (Poetry)","""'Tis only those of purer clay[1]
""From sensual dross refined,
""In whom the passions pleas'd obey
""The God within the mind,[2]
""Who share my delegated aid,
""Through Wisdom's golden mean convey'd
""From the first source of sov'reign good:
""All else to horrid license tends,
""Springs from vindictive pride, and ends
""In anarchy and blood.
Footnote 2 reads, ""Mr. Pope uses this Platonic phrase for conscience.
--See Essay on Man, Ep. II. p. 204, with Warburton's note upon it, where the learned critic says justly that it admits a double meaning.
--It is in its latter practical, or rather Christian sense, that I here employ it, to convey the important truth delivered by St. Paul, ""where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.""""",6137,"""'Tis only those of purer clay
""From sensual dross refined,
""In whom the passions pleas'd obey
""The God within the mind,
""Who share my delegated aid,
""Through Wisdom's golden mean convey'd
""From the first source of sov'reign good:
""All else to horrid license tends,
""Springs from vindictive pride, and ends
""In anarchy and blood.",III. 2.,2010-12-30 23:31:13 UTC
18798,Inhabitants,"",,"""In Silence hush'd, to Reason's Voice, / Attends each mental Pow'r.""",2011-06-23 19:56:13 UTC,Reading,"",6973,"The Midnight Moon serenely smiles,
O'er Nature's soft Repose;
No low'ring Cloud obscures the Sky,
No ruffling Tempest blows.
Now ev'ry Passion sinks to Rest,
The throbbing Heart lies still:
And varying Schemes of Life no more
Distract the lab'ring Will.
In Silence hush'd, to Reason's Voice,
Attends each mental Pow'r:
Come dear Emilia, and enjoy
Reflexion's fav'rite Hour.
(pp. 65-66)","",2011-06-23 19:56:13 UTC
18807,"","",,"""Mute is each Syren Passion's faithless song / Check'd and suspended by the solemn scene: / Mute the wild clamours of the giddy throng, / And only heard the ""still small voice"" within.""",2011-06-23 20:44:32 UTC,Reading,"",6979,"Not for themselves the toiling artists build,
Not for himself contrives the studious sage:
To distant views by mystic force compell'd,
All give the present to the future age.
Beneath the shelter of this reverend pile
The various schemes of busy care repose:
O'er the dark tombs, along each peopled isle,
The moon's pale beam a faint reflection throws.
Here Death his melancholy pomp displays,
And all his terrors strike on Fancy's eye:
To Fancy's ear each hollow gale conveys,
In chilling sounds, the last expiring sigh.
Mute is each Syren Passion's faithless song
Check'd and suspended by the solemn scene:
Mute the wild clamours of the giddy throng,
And only heard the ""still small voice"" within.
Ambition sick'ning views the laurel'd bust,
The weak reward for years of rival strife:
While Pleasure's garland withering in the dust,
Confutes the gayer hope of frolic life.
(p. 109)","",2011-06-23 20:44:32 UTC
19859,Animals,"",,"""But was it made for nothing else beside / Passions to draw, and Reason to be Guide? / Was so much Art employ'd to drag and drive / Nothing within the Vehicle alive? / No seated Mind that claims the moving Pew, / Master of Passions, and of Reason too?""",2012-07-05 05:00:48 UTC,Searching in HDIS (Poetry),A metaphor in a metaphor: moving pew.,6366,"Strong Passions draw, like Horses that are strong,
The Body-Coach of Flesh and Blood along;
While subtle Reason, with each Rein in Hand,
Sits on the Box, and has them at Command;
Rais'd up aloft, to see and to be seen,
Judges the Track, and guides the gay Machine.
But was it made for nothing else beside
Passions to draw, and Reason to be Guide?
Was so much Art employ'd to drag and drive
Nothing within the Vehicle alive?
No seated Mind, that claims the moving Pew,
Master of Passions, and of Reason too?
The grand Contrivance why so well equip
With strength of Passions, rul'd by Reason's Whip?
Vainly profuse had Apparatus been,
Did not a reigning Spirit rest within;
Which Passions carry, and sound Reason means
To render present at pre-order'd Scenes.
They who are loud in human Reason's Praise,
And celebrate the Drivers of our Days,
Seem to suppose, by their continual Bawl,
That Passions, Reason, and Machine, is all;
To them the Windows are drawn up, and clear
Nothing that does not outwardly appear.
Matter and Motion, and superior Man
By Head and Shoulders, form their reas'ning Plan.
View'd and demurely ponder'd, as they roll,
And scoring Traces on the Paper Soul,
Blank, shaven white, they fill th' unfurnish'd Pate
With new Idéas, none of them innate.
When these Adepts are got upon a Box,
Away they gallop thro' the gazing Flocks;
Trappings admir'd, and the high-mettl'd Brute
And Reason balancing its either Foot;
While seeing Eyes discern, at their Approach,
Fulness of Skill, and emptiness of Coach.
'Tis very well that lively Passions draw,
That sober Reason keeps them all in Awe,--
The one to run, the other to control,
And drive directly to the destin'd Goal.
""What Goal?""--Ay, there the Question should begin:
What Spirit drives the willing Mind within?
Sense, Reason, Passions, and the like, are still
One self-same Man, whose Action is his Will;
Whose Will, if right, will soon renounce the Pride
Of an own Reason for an only Guide;
As God's unerring Spirit shall inspire,
Will still direct the Drift of his Desire.","",2013-03-25 01:39:13 UTC