work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
5746,"",Reading,2003-07-28 00:00:00 UTC,"C------e, whom providence hath placed
In the rich realms of polished taste,
Where judgment penetrates to find
The treasures of the unwrought mind,
Where conversation's ardent spirit
Refines from dross the ore of merit,
Where emulation aids the flame
And stamps the sterling bust of fame:
Can you, accustomed to behold
The purest intellectual gold,
Where genius sheds its living rays,
Bright as the sunny diamonds blaze,
Like idle virtuouso deign
To pick up pebbles from the plain?
Pleased if the worthless flints pretend
Fantastic characters to blend;
These in your cabinet insert,
And real excellence desert?
(ll. 1-18, p. 382 in Lonsdale; cf. p. 115-6 in 1791 ed.)",,15305,"•The poet asks Mrs C----e to suppose her a pebble.
•Rich verses. I've included four times: Treasure, Dross and Ore, Sterling, Stamp — now 5 times","""In the rich realms of polished taste, / Where judgment penetrates to find / The treasures of the unwrought mind, / Where conversation's ardent spirit / Refines from dross the ore of merit, / Where emulation aids the flame / And stamps the sterling bust of fame.""",Impressions and Metal,2014-02-22 04:59:37 UTC,""
7080,"",Reading,2011-09-02 19:21:06 UTC,"When borne at length to Western Lands,
Chain'd on the beach the Captive stands,
Where Man, dire merchandize! is sold,
And barter'd life is paid for gold;
In mute affliction, see him try
To read his new possessor's eye;
If one blest glance of mercy there,
One half-form'd tear may check despair!--
Ah, if that eye with sorrow sees
His languid look, his quiv'ring knees,
Those limbs, which scarce their load sustain,
That form, consum'd in wasting pain;
Such sorrow melts his ruthless eye
Who sees the lamb, he doom'd to die,
In pining sickness yield his life,
And thus elude the sharpen'd knife.--
Or, if where savage habit steels
The vulgar mind, one bosom feels
The sacred claim of helpless woe--
If Pity in that soil can grow;
Pity! whose tender impulse darts
With keenest force on nobler hearts;
As flames that purest essence boast,
Rise highest when they tremble most.--
Yet why on one poor chance must rest
The int'rests of a kindred breast?
Humanity's devoted cause
Recline on Humour's wayward laws?
To Passions rules must Justice bend,
And life upon Caprice depend?--
(pp. 16-18, ll. 249-278)",,19128,"","""Or, if where savage habit steels / The vulgar mind, one bosom feels / The sacred claim of helpless woe-- / If Pity in that soil can grow; / Pity! whose tender impulse darts / With keenest force on nobler hearts; / As flames that purest essence boast, / Rise highest when they tremble most.""",Metal,2011-09-02 19:21:06 UTC,""