Who is Mark Akenside

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Mark Akenside Poems

  • Whoe'er Thou Art Whose Pat In Summer Lies
    Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies
    Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove
    Of branching oaks a rural palace old
    Imbosoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord ...
  • Ambition And Content
    While yet the world was young, and men were few,
    Nor lurking fraud, nor tyrant rapine knew,
    In virtue rude, the gaudy arts they scorn'd,
    Which, virtue lost, degenerate times adorn'd: ...
  • Ode Ix(ii); At Study
    Whither did my fancy stray?
    By what magic drawn away
    Have I left my studious theme?
    From this philosophic page, ...
  • To The Author Of Memoirs Of The House Of Brandenburgh
    The men renown'd as chiefs of human race,
    And born to lead in counsels or in arms,
    Have seldom turn'd their feet from glory's chace
    To dwell with books or court the Muse's charms. ...
  • The Pleasures Of Imagination - The Second Book
    When shall the laurel and the vocal string
    Resume their honours? When shall we behold
    The tuneful tongue, the Promethéan hand
    Aspire to ancient praise? Alas! how faint, ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Mark Akenside

Love 64 I Love You 64 Mind 58 Heart 51 Power 47 Life 46 Divine 43 Tongue 43 Human 42 Heaven 40

Mark Akenside Quotes

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Comments about Mark Akenside

  • Tesssomervell: did not expect to see gray on this. and oh hi mark (akenside)
  • Kumarsanil7: mark akenside as a pre-romantic poet
  • Bookish54045594: just saw this on amazon: mark akenside: a reassessment by dix, robin for $133.79
  • Georgedance04: today's poem on penny's poetry blog: on the winter solstice, by mark akenside but lo, on this deserted coast how pale the light! how thick the air! lo, armed with whirlwind, hail, and frost, fierce winter desolates the year. [...]
  • Book_addict: happy birthday to english poet mark akenside (november 9, 1721), author of "hymn to the naiads" (1746) et al.
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Poem of the day

Thomas Moore Poem
Lay His Sword By His Side
 by Thomas Moore

Lay his sword by his side -- it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave --
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

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