work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
5965,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""steel"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-10 00:00:00 UTC,"Lo the procession! Let me pause intent,
And first drink pleasure at the peasant's grave.
Humane and christian is the muse, and fond
Of ev'ry object, cheerful or sedate,
Which rural scenes afford. She nor contemns
The nuptial holiday, nor views untouch'd
The sad solemnity of rustic woe,
What time the white-frock'd mourner slowly moves,
And brings with mute reluctance to the grave
The dear remains of some departed friend.
The decent sheet that overspreads the bier!
How well becomes it sorrow neat as their's,
Pure, and unsullied by the shameless tear
Of wrung hypocrisy! Steel were the heart
That could this passing spectacle survey,
Nor feel the touch of sympathy within.
Me it well pleases to the holy sward
To follow pitying, nor disowns my muse
The feminine sensations of a heart
That often vibrates at another's woe.
The tear that trickles down the manly cheek,
The burst of grief that braves control, the sigh
Which baffles interception, and escapes
Soon as the solemn pause bids lift the pall,
And ease the dead into his kindred earth,
Send many a tingling arrow through this breast,
Though the reluctant eye no grief betray,
And tearless silence in her deepest gloom
The decent pleasurable secret hide.
But often as my sated soul surveys
The sable funeral of city pomp,
Methinks life human is a play indeed,
And the poor player man, exhausted, spent,
Has made his exit, and now comes the farce.
'Tis pantomimic shew--the nodding plume,
The proud escutcheon'd hearse, and long parade
Of dry-eyed mourners clad in inky cloaks,
The streaming crape, and dismal aisle behung
With sable manufacture ill-applied.
To see such idle waste, and childish shew,
I smile, and nothing grieve. Not so, when death
Calls for the hind, and undissembled grief
Of father, widow, offspring, to the grave
His decent corpse attends. Then through my soul
Exquisite sympathy's vibration thrills;
It sorrows freely, breathes the grateful sigh,
Nor scorns to utter from a heart subdued
The mourner's luxury, the deep ""alas!""",,15866,•C-H takes from Poems (1808),"""Steel were the heart / That could this passing spectacle survey, / Nor feel the touch of sympathy within.""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:44:56 UTC,""
5965,"","Searching ""mill"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2006-12-12 00:00:00 UTC,"How pleasant now upon the village stile
To rest well-wearied, while the jovial boy,
From school dismiss'd, upon the sunny green
Pitches his wicket, a stone-steadied hat,
And bowls exulting! Of encumbrance stript,
He for his maiden visage nothing fears,
But to the scorching day-beam, unconcern'd,
His cheek and bosom bares, nor aught regards
The freckled aspect, or the sun-burnt skin.
Piece of the nether millstone is his heart
Who marks ill-pleas'd the frolic of the child,
Or views the rural festival unmov'd.
Me it delights to overhear the dance
Upon the winnow'd floor of the void grange,
To pause at hand, and listen to the sound
Of the brisk viol challenging the foot,
And of the foot respondent, and to see
The village maid and village hind alert
Pacing the giddy labyrinth of joy,
Each in the trim of holiday attir'd.
Nor pleases not, upon the social green,
The game laborious of the manly ball
Aim'd at the wicket, and its taper shanks
Levelling certain, but for hindrance quick
And resolute repulse of the strong blow,
That sends it thunder-struck aloft in air,
Or o'er the plain rebounding. Thou hast charms,
Rural festivity, not soon surpass'd,
Compare thee, as we may, with sport polite,
The neat amusement fashion qualifies,
Till nice refinement sits without disdain
Spectatress of the scene. Never more keen
Their liveliest ecstasy, than when, for health
To George restor'd, illumination's lamp
Was freely kindled, and the rural throng
From ev'ry door conven'd, along the street
Mingled in loyalty's triumphant maze.
Then pipe and viol felt alone fatigue,
While, nothing wearied, they with foot alert
The blazing window's artificial day
Down danc'd, the fretted cupola of heaven
Their spacious ball-room, their assembler God.",,15877,•C-H takes from Poems (1808),"""Piece of the nether millstone is his heart / Who marks ill-pleas'd the frolic of the child, / Or views the rural festival unmov'd.""","",2009-09-14 19:44:58 UTC,""