Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey.

[Yuwipi Woman]

Byron did on occasion rise to the task. I always remember his poem about his dog:

Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808.

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below:
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnotic'd all his worth,
Deny'd in heaven the Soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one—and here he lies.

I try not to judge an artist's work on his life. A lot of artists are massive dicks and there'd be very little to read if I only read people who were "nice guys."

 

[Serene]

I try not to judge an artist's work on his life. A lot of artists are massive dicks and there'd be very little to read if I only read people who were "nice guys."

I understand what you are saying. I decided to read about Wordsworth for a bit of peace and quiet. Its good to educate oneself with the classics. I also dont always read about nice guys.
Actually, Wordsworth was a rebel in his younger days. I mean, not on the scale of Byron who was much more of a rebelious character. Though in his later days, yes, Wordsworth became a real law abiding, good citizen. A Tory too

 

[Pickman's model]

I understand what you are saying. I decided to read about Wordsworth for a bit of peace and quiet. Its good to educate oneself with the classics. I also dont always read about nice guys.
Actually, Wordsworth was a rebel in his younger days. I mean, not on the scale of Byron who was much more of a rebelious character. Though in his later days, yes, Wordsworth became a real law abiding, good citizen. A Tory too

Yeh but like all good Tories he's a dead one

 

[Serene]

Yeh but like all good Tories he's a dead one

They could keep some of the not so bad ones in the Tower of London for the tourists perhaps.

 

[Pickman's model]

They could keep some of the not so bad ones in the Tower of London for the tourists perhaps.

No, they'll be shipped to the pengo plant in grytviken with the rest of their foul ilk

 

[spudulike]

Coleridge cottage in West Somerset is worth a visit.

The Wordsworths rented nearby Alfoxton House for a couple of years. We stayed there many times over the years when it was the Alfoxton Park Hotel. So much character and fantastic food. After being derelict for twelve years it is going to be a Buddhist retreat.

Note the "oft" - I know a fellow slacker when I see one....

"For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood"

 

[Winot]

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

Love it.

I’ll play.