Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ON LUXURY, by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER Poet's Biography First Line: Why, ye profuse, has nature work'd in vain Last Line: Too deeply bosom'd in the branching wood. Subject(s): Great Britain; Nature; Pleasure; Vanity | ||||||||
WHY, ye Profuse, has Nature work'd in vain, To cloath with useful Woods Britannia's Plain? Why the stout Oak, great King of Forests, made, The knotted Ewe, and Beech of solemn Shade? Why bends the Ash high-rustling o'er the Hills, Why Poplars tall o'erhang the creeping Rills? My Lord contemptuous of his Country's Groves, As foreign Fashions foreign Trees too loves: "Odious! upon a Walnut-plank to dine! "Nothe red-vein'd Mohoggony be mine! "Each Chest and Chair around my Room that stands, "Was ship'd thro' dangerous Seas from distant Lands: "Death! shou'd your British Cloths my Limbs infold! "How clumsily they sett when lac'd with Gold! "For me rich Persia's Products cross the Deep, "I owe my Dress to Silkworms, not to Sheep! "And sent to China the poor Sailor burns, "To fetch me Cups, Bowls, Urinals and Urns." While thus the Great to modish Trifles stoop, Each Science sorrows, all the Muses droop; For those who most should patronize the Muse, Neglect, or dread, or fetter, or abuse. Pictura hangs the Head, and sighing stands, And drops the useless Pallet from her Hands; Sculpture that hop'd our lofty Halls to grace, With Raleigh's, Bacon's, Milton's, Newton's Face, (Names that from Britons claim a loud Applause) Weeps, breaks her rusty Chissel and withdraws. The thoughtless Rich on rosy Beds repose. With downy-finger'd Sloth their Eyes to close; The Hand quite unemploy'd, and mute the Tongue, Like idle Lutes in musty Cases hung: Man grows fatigu'd with even Paths and plain, Life sweetest tastes diversify'd with Pain; The Table-Diamond shines not half so bright, As brilliant Angles rich with varied Light. Should Fortune frown, her Favourite's Visions cease, His Soul starts conscious from the Bands of Ease; Adversity to Action wakes his Worth, And gives each hidden Talent, Life and Birth. So when bleak Winter strips the mournful Trees, The Traveller, Towns, Temples, Villa's sees, That in warm Spring invisible had stood, Too deeply bosom'd in the branching Wood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THROUGH A GLASS EYE, LIGHTLY by CAROLYN KIZER EPITAPH: FOR A PREACHER by COUNTEE CULLEN THE FLESH AND THE SPIRIT by ANNE BRADSTREET THE TENTH MUSE: THE VANITY OF ALL WORLDLY THINGS by ANNE BRADSTREET THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH by ROBERT BROWNING ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER' by GEORGE GORDON BYRON AGING: ON THE VANITY OF EARTHLY GREATNESS by ARTHUR GUITERMAN THE SPIDER AND THE FLY by MARY HOWITT A FAREWELL TO POETRY by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER A FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER A PARAPHRASE ON THE 13TH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER |
|