Horace. Book II. Ode 10

The first example is a poem in persona, by a poet supposed to work as a journalist.  It is obviously influenced by Horace.  As the days go by, I'll add some translation of the master.

Hints From Horace 

The oaks, their last deposit paid of leaves,

still clatter their rheumatic threnodies

to comfort every stranded bankrupt bird.

Flowers in seed lie patient as a bride

waiting anxiously between cold sheets, dumb

to questions of her past.  I too am numb

from talking talking, writing short reviews,

blanked out on magazines and evening news.

It’s not much, as life goes, lived from the neck

up.   Free, at least, if free means at the beck

and call of any editorialist

who wants to prove I never would be missed

were I to get run over by a train.

I’m doing well and really can’t complain,

if a world, which runs on notoriety,

cannot take half a second to notice me.

Let us be patient now and plant our seeds

in the cold ground, waiting for them to bud;

Be kind to one another, make amends,

and celebrate the birthdays of our friends,

put on Ben Jonson for a one-night run,

read Horace in the evening just for fun.

We’ll eat the wheat we can despite the chaff,

and opening the wine we’ll talk and laugh

all night and toast poor old Boethius

biding his time among suspicious Goths.

Perch Fishing

Enough: and leave the rest to Fame.
'Tis to commend her but to name.
Courtship, which living she declin'd,
When dead to offer were unkind...

Where never any could speak ill,
Who would officious Praises spill?
Nor can the truest Wit or Friend,
Without Detracting, her commend.
To say she liv'd a Virgin chast,
In this Age loose and all unlac't;
Nor was, when Vice is so allow'd,
Of Virtue or asham'd, or proud;
That her Soul was on Heaven so bent

No Minute but it came and went;

That ready her last Debt to pay
She summ'd her Life up ev'ry day;
Modest as Morn; as Mid-day bright;
Gentle as Ev'ning; cool as Night;
'Tis true: but all so weakly said;
'Twere more Significant, She's Dead.

The Garden

The Mower's Song

How My Mind was once the true survey
Of all these Medows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the Grass
Did see its Hopes as in a Glass;
When Juliana came, and she
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But these, while I with Sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine;
That not one Blade of Grass you spy'd,
But had a Flower on either side;
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

Unthankful Meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gawdy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But what you in Compassion ought,
Shall now by my Revenge be wrought:
And Flow'rs, and Grass, and I and all,
Will in one common Ruine fall.
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the Heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my Tomb;
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

The Mower to the Glow Worms

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;

Ye country comets, that portend
No war nor prince’s funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Than to presage the grass’s fall;

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.

The Mower against Gardens

Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use,
Did after him the world seduce,
And from the fields the flowers and plants allure,
Where nature was most plain and pure.
He first enclosed within the gardens square
A dead and standing pool of air,
And a more luscious earth for them did knead,
Which stupified them while it fed.
The pink grew then as double as his mind;
The nutriment did change the kind.
With strange perfumes he did the roses taint,
And flowers themselves were taught to paint.
The tulip, white, did for complexion seek,
And learned to interline its cheek:
Its onion root they then so high did hold,
That one was for a meadow sold.
Another world was searched, through oceans new,
To find the Marvel of Peru.
And yet these rarities might be allowed
To man, that sovereign thing and proud,
Had he not dealt between the bark and tree,
Forbidden mixtures there to see.
No plant now knew the stock from which it came;
He grafts upon the wild the tame:
That th’ uncertain and adulterate fruit
Might put the palate in dispute.
His green seraglio has its eunuchs too,
Lest any tyrant him outdo.
And in the cherry he does nature vex,
To procreate without a sex.
’Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot,
While the sweet fields do lie forgot:
Where willing nature does to all dispense
A wild and fragrant innocence:
And fauns and fairies do the meadows till,
More by their presence than their skill.
Their statues, polished by some ancient hand,
May to adorn the gardens stand:
But howsoe’er the figures do excel,
The gods themselves with us do dwell.

Marvell's  Horatian Ode

One of the most ambitious poems in the English language and perhaps the only truly successful ode is his "Horatian on Cromwell's Return from Ireland."  Ordinarily I don't like to talk too much about a poem, but I am willing to talk this one to death.  Read it carefully, bearing in mind that Marvell was a Roundhead.  Yet he makes the execution of Charles the center--in all senses--of the poem.  He shows such a fairness and such a tragic sense, I am struck with admiration for him every time I read this.

THE forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urged his active star:

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:

For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;
And Caesar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry Heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould;

Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain--
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak--

Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art;

Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Caresbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;

Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bow'd his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forced power:
So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,

A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just
And fit for highest trust.

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the republic's hand--
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!

He to the Commons' feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
And, what he may, forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the public's skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having kill'd, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch;
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear,
If thus he crowns each year?

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his particolour'd mind,
But, from this valour, sad
Shrink underneath the plaid;

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

Spleen

(For Arthur Symons)

I was not sorrowful, I could not weep,

And all my memories were put to sleep.

All day till evening I watched it change.

Beat wearily upon the window pane.

I was not sorrowful, but only tired

Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me

The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became

Oblivion, until the evening came

And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep,

With all my memories that could not sleep.

Here is another, Ad manus puellae

I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.

I remember an hand like a fleur-de-lys
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?

They are pale with the pallor of ivories;
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?

I know not the way from your finger-tips,
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands.

Many of the Decadents were drawn, for reasons both sensuous and spiritual (it is not always hard to distinguish) to the Roman Church.  Here is a rare religious poem of Dowson,

                 Benedictio Domini

Ballads are story telling poems or songs written in rhyming quatrains, alternating lines of 4 and 3 stresses.  Sometimes these shorter lines are combined into a longer line known as a fourteener, because if it ends blunt with a masculine rhyme, it has 14 syllables.  Here, to illustrate the form, are the first three lines of a famous literary specimen by Oscar Wilde:

He did not wear his scarlet coat for blood and wine are red

And blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead

The poor dead woman whom he loved and murdered in her bed.

I described this as a literary specimen, because many ballads are rather subliterary or folkish.  This very popular English and Scottish form was taken to America and it thrived in Appalachia.  In describing ballads as subliterary I do not at all mean any disrespect.  They can be quite sophisticated in narrative technique.  A primitive pop ballad often tells the whole story from beginning to end, while a good ballad has boiled down the essence to the point that the listener can be confused if he has not heard the song before.

Let's take an early one.  This version of Barbara Allen was collected and possibly prettified by Bishop Percy.  As I recall, it is the version sung by that great patriotic songster, Peter Seeger.

• In Scarlet Town where I was born
  There was a fair maid dwelling
  Made every youth cry 'Well-a-day'
  Her name was Barbara Allen
• 'Twas in the merry month of May
  When the green buds they were swelling
  Sweet William on his death-bed lay
  For the love of Barbara AllenHe sent his servant to the town
  To the place where she was dwelling
  Said, Master, he bid you to him
  If your name be Barbara AllenThen slowly slowly she got up
  And slowly when she nighed him
  And when she drew the curtain back
  Said, Young man, I think you're dyingOh yes I'm sick, I'm very very sick
  And I never can be better
  Until I have the love of one
  The love of Barbara Allen

  Then slowly slowly she got up
  And he trembled like an aspen
  'Tis vain 'tis vain, young man, Said she
  To fain for Barbara Allen

  She walked out in a green green field
  She heard his death bells knelling
  At every toll they seemed to say
  Cold-hearted Barbara Allen

  Her eyes looked east, her eyes looked west
  She saw his pale corpse coming
  Said, Bearers oh bearers, pray put him down
  So I may look upon him

  The more she looked the more she grieved
  Until she burst out crying
  O bearers, o bearers, pray take him away
  For I am now a-dying

  Oh father, oh father, go dig my grave
  Go dig it deep and narrow
  Sweet William he died for me today
  I'll die for him tomorrow

  They buried her in the old churchyard
  Sweet William's grave was nigh her
  And from his heart grew a red red rose
  And from her heart a briar

  They grew and they grew the old churchyard wall
  Till they couldn't grow no higher
  Until they tied a true lovers' knot
  The red rose and the briar

  
  

  "Barbara Allen" is not especially useful for a discussion of narrative clarity, because the tradition is obscure.  There is a theory I read years ago in an academic volume, that as cultures progress songs become more articulate and coherent.  More articulate in the sense that it is important to understand what words are being sung, and coherent in the sense of a clear narrative presentation.  A lot of African songs consist of the repetition of nonsense sounds, poorly articulated, interpolated with statements like, "Building me a boat today, unhunh, building me a boat.  Contrast this with the Psalms and then contrast the Psalms with, say, the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, a beautifully constructed narrative.  I think it was actually the late Allan Lomax who argued that British Ballads take this one step beyond--as by the way, Pindar does and the writers of Greek tragedy in their lyrics--and you can take the narrative background for granted and either suppress boring transitional details or not fill in the picture because the singer is concentrating on other things.
  
  Take this early song, not strictly a ballad, though if we leave out the exclamations it has the form, "Edward", which we all had to read in college.  It is absolutely chilling.  We don't know exactly what mon's plot was but it is Macbethian in its evil.
  
  Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid,
  Edward, Edward?
  Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid?
  And why sae sad gang ye, O?
  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
  Mither, mither,
  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
  And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
  
  Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
  Edward, Edward,
  Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
  My deir son I tell thee, O.
  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
  Mither, mither,
  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
  That erst was sae fair and frie, O.
  
  Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
  Edward, Edward,
  Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
  Sum other dule ye drie, O.
  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
  Mither, mither,
  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
  Alas, and wae is mee, O.
  
  And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,
  Edward, Edward?
  And whatten penance will ye drie for that?
  My deir son, now tell me, O.
  Ile set my feit in yonder boat,
  Mither, mither,
  Il set my feit in yonder boat,
  And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
  
  And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
  Edward, Edward?
  And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
  That were sae fair to see, O?
  Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
  Mither, mither,
  Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
  For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
  
  And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
  Edward, Edward?
  And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
  Whan ye gang ovir the sea, O?
  The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
  Mither, mither,
  The warldis room, let them beg thrae life,
  For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
  
  And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,
  Edward, Edward?
  And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir?
  My deir son, now tell mee, O.
  The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
  Mither, mither,
  The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
  Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.

  Another favorite of min.

                Johnie Armstrong

  	 THERE dwelt a man in faire Westmerland,
  	 Ionn  Armestrong men did him call,
  	 He had nither lands nor rents coming in,
  	 Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.
  	 He had horse and harness for them all,
  	 Goodly steeds were all milke-white;
  	 O the golden bands an about their necks,
  	 And their weapons, they were all alike.
  	 Newes then was brought unto the king
  	 That there was sicke a won as hee,
  	 That liv d lyke a bold out-law,
  	 And robb d all the north country.
  	 The king he writt an a letter then,
  	 A letter which was large and long;
  	 He sign d it with his owne hand,
  	 And he promised to doe him no wrong.
  	 When this letter came Ionn  untill,
  	 His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree:
  	 ‘Never was I sent for before any king,
  	 My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee.
  	 ‘And if wee goe the king before,
  	 I would we went most orderly;
  	 Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak,
  	 Laced with silver laces three.
  	 ‘Every won of you shall have his velvett coat,
  	 Laced with silver lace so white;
  	 O the golden bands an about your necks,
  	 Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.’
  	 By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock,
  	 Towards Edenburough gon was hee,
  	 And with him all his eight score men;
  	 Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see!
  	 When Ionn  came befower the king,
  	 He fell downe on his knee;
  	 ‘O pardon, my soveraigne leige,’ he said,
  	 ‘O pardon my eight score men and mee!’
  	 ‘Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong,
  	 For thy eight score men nor thee;
  	 For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock,
  	 Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow-tree.’
  	 But Ionn  looke’d over his left shoulder,
  	 Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee!
  	 Saying, Asking grace of a graceles face-+--+-
  	 Why there is none for you nor me.
  	 But Ionn  had a bright sword by his side,
  	 And it was made of the mettle so free,
  	 That had not the king, stept his foot aside,
  	 He had smitten his head from his faire bodd .
  	 Saying, Fight on, my merry men all,
  	 And see that none of you be taine;
  	 For rather then men shall say we were hange’d,
  	 Let them report how we were slaine.
  	 Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose,
  	 And so besett poore Ionn  rounde,
  	 That fowerscore and tenn of Ionn s best men
  	 Lay gasping all upon the ground.
  	 Then like a mad man Ionn  laide about,
  	 And like a mad man then fought hee,
  	 Untill a falce Scot came Ionn  behinde,
  	 And runn him through the faire boddee.
  	 Saying, Fight on, my merry men all,
  	 And see that none of you be taine;
  	 For I will stand by and bleed but awhile,
  	 And then will I come and fight againe.
  	 Newes then was brought to young Ionn  Armestrong,
  	 As he stood by his nurses knee,
  	 Who vowed if ere he live’d for to be a man,
  	 O the treacherous Scots revengd hee’d be.

  
  

  
  

[KING.]  Welcome, Don Balthazar!  Welcome nephew!
    And thou, Horatio, thou art welcome too!
    Young prince, although thy fathers hard misdeedes
    In keeping backe the tribute that he owes
    Deserue but euill measure at our hands,
    Yet shalt thou know that Spaine is honorable.

  BALT.  The trespasse that my father made in peace
    Is now controlde by fortune of the warres;
    And cards once dealt, it bootes not aske why so.
    His men are slaine,--a weakening to his realme;
    His colours ceaz'd,--a blot vnto his name;
    His sonne distrest,--a corsiue to his hart;
    These punishments may cleare his late offence.

  KING.  I, Balthazar, if he obserue this truce,
    Our peace will grow the stronger for these warres.
    Meane-while liue thou, though not in libertie,
    Yet free from bearing any seruile yoake;
    For in our hearing thy deserts were great.
    And in our sight thy-selfe art gratious.

  BALT.  And I shall studie to deserue this grace.

  KING.  But tell me,--for their holding makes me doubt:
    To Which of these twaine art thou prisoner?

  LOR.  To me, my liege.

  HOR.                   To me, my soueraigne.

  LOR.  This hand first tooke his courser by the raines.

  HOR.  But first my launce did put him from his horse.

  LOR.  I ceaz'd the weapon and enioyde it first.

  HOR.  But first I forc'd him lay his weapons downe.

  KING. Let goe his arm, vpon my priviledge!

                  Let him goe.

    Say, worthy prince:  to whether didst thou yeeld?

Here's a bit of early Marlowe that indicates the poet's interest in having an animated conversation.  It's livelier than Kyd for the most part but not that big an improvement:


MYCETES. Come, my Meander, let us to this gear.
I tell you true, my heart is swoln with wrath
On this same thievish villain Tamburlaine,
And of  that false Cosroe, my traitorous brother.
Would it not grieve a king to be so abus'd,
And have a thousand horsemen ta'en away?
And, which is worse, to have his diadem
Sought for by such scald knaves as love him not?
I think it would:  well, then, by heavens I swear,
Aurora shall not peep out of her doors,
But I will have Cosroe by the head,
And kill proud Tamburlaine with point of sword.
Tell you the rest, Meander:  I have said.


Contrast that with the following scrap from Doctor Faustus:


MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens;
For, when we hear one rack the name of God,
Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ,
We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul;
Nor will we come, unless he use such means
Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd.
Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring
Is stoutly to abjure the Trinity,
And pray devoutly to the prince of hell.

FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath
Already done; and holds this principle,
There is no chief but only Belzebub;
To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.
This word "damnation" terrifies not him,
For he confounds hell in Elysium:
His ghost be with the old philosophers!
But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls,
Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord?

MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.

FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once?

MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils?

MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence;
For which God threw him from the face of heaven.

FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer?

MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,
Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer,
And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd?

MEPHIST. In hell.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell?

MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it:
Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells,
In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss?
O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,
Which strike a terror to my fainting soul!


Note the broken lines, and note the way he shapes the rhetorical flow of the speech.

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
 Guilty of dust and sin.
 But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
 From my first entrance in,
 Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
 If I lack'd anything.

 "A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
 Love said, "You shall be he."
 "I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
 I cannot look on thee."
 Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
 "Who made the eyes but I?"

 "Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
 Go where it doth deserve."
 "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
 "My dear, then I will serve."
 "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
 So I did sit and eat.

The World

by Henry Vaughan

Johnson's best known poem is:

By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross

Sombre and rich, the skies ;

Great glooms, and starry plains.

Gently the night wind sighs ;

Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings

Around me : and around

The saddest of all kings

Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides

Hard by his own Whitehall.

Only the night wind glides:

No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court : and yet,

The stars his courtiers are :

Stars in their stations set;

And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone,

The fair and fatal king :

Dark night is all his own,

That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate :

The stars ; or those sad eyes ?

Which are more still and great :

Those brows, or the dark skies ?

Although his whole heart yearn

In passionate tragedy,

Never was face so stern

With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death

By beauty made amends :

The passing of his breath

Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless ? Nay :

Through death, life grew sublime.

Speak after sentence ? Yea :

And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head

Bare to the stars of doom ;

He triumphs now, the dead,

Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints,

Vexed in the world's employ :

His soul was of the saints;

And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe !

Men hunger for thy grace :

And through the night I go,

Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps,

When all the cries are still,

The stars and heavenly deeps

Work out a perfect will.

Here is a short piece called,

Precept of Silence

I know you: solitary griefs,
Desolate passions, aching hours!
I know you: tremulous beliefs,
Agonized hopes, and ashen flowers!

The winds are sometimes sad to me;
The starry spaces, full of fear:
Mine is the sorrow of the sea,
And mine the sigh of places drear.

Some players upon plaintive strings
Publish their wistfulness abroad:
I have not spoken of these things,
Save to one man, and unto God.

ANOTHER

Cadgwith

My windows open to the autumn night, 

In vain I watched for sleep to visit me; 

How should sleep dull mine ears, and dim my sight, 

Who saw the stars, and listened to the sea ? 

Ah, how the City of our God is fair! 

If, without sea, and starless though it be, 

For joy of the majestic beauty there, 

Men shall not miss the stars, nor mourn the sea.

I could not find  online texts of Dryden's Juvenal to crib from.  When I do, I'll continue the discussion of satire.