Mark Akenside quotes

Such and so various are the tastes of men! (Mark Akenside)

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

Mark Akenside

Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys, And eagerly pursues imaginary joys.

Mark Akenside

Is aught so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, In the bright eye of Hesper or the morn, In nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair As virtuous friendship? as the candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just? The graceful tear that streams for others' woes? Or the mild majesty of private life, Where peace with ever blooming olive crowns The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings Of Innocence and Love protect the scene?

Mark Akenside

O'er yonder eastern hill the twilight pale Walks forth from darkness; and the God of day, With bright Astraea seated by his side, Waits yet to leave the ocean.

Mark Akenside

Others of graver mien; behold, adorn'd With holy ensigns, how sublime they move, And bending oft their sanctimonious eyes Take homage of the simple-minded throng; Ambassadors of heaven!

Mark Akenside

Oft the hours From morn to eve have stolen unmark'd away, While mute attention hung upon his lips.

Mark Akenside

Heaven's all-subduing will, With good the progeny of ill, Attempreth every state below.

Mark Akenside

Man loves knowledge, and the beams of truth More welcome touch his understanding's eye Than all the blandishments of sound his ear, Than all of taste his tongue.

Mark Akenside

The Providence of heaven Has some peculiar blessing given To each allotted state below.

Mark Akenside

Ask the faithful youth
Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
Oh! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes
With virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture. (Mark Akenside)

Can art, alas! or genius guide the head Where truth and freedom from the heart are fled? Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke, When the prime function of the soul is broke?

Mark Akenside

Youth calls for Pleasure, Pleasure calls for Love.

Mark Akenside

Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale.

Mark Akenside

Rustic herald of the spring.

Mark Akenside

Than Timoleon's arms require, And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.

Mark Akenside

Adieu, for him, The dull engagements of the bustling world! Adieu the sick impertinence of praise! And hope, and action! for with her alone, By streams and shades, to steal these sighing hours, Is all he asks, and all that fate can give!

Mark Akenside

This was Shakespeare's form; who walked in every path of human life, felt every passion; and to all mankind doth now, will ever, that experience yield which his own genius only could acquire.

Mark Akenside