Mark Akenside

thumb|Man loves knowledge, and the beams of truthMore welcome touch his understanding's eyeThan all the blandishments of sound his ear,Than all of taste his tongue. Mark Akenside (November 9, 1721 – June 23, 1770) was an English poet and physician. Quotes Youth calls for Pleasure, Pleasure calls for Love. "Love, An Elegy", line 90 Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys,And eagerly pursues imaginary joys. The Virtuoso (1737), stanza x, lines 89–90 O'er yonder eastern hill the twilight paleWalks forth from darkness; and the God of day,With bright Astraea seated by his side,Waits yet to leave the ocean. Hymn to the Naiads (1746), lines 1–4 Epistle to Curio (1744) The man forget not, though in rags he lies,And know the mortal through a crown's disguise. Lines 197–198 Can art, alas! or genius guide the headWhere truth and freedom from the heart are fled?Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke,When the prime function of the soul is broke? Lines 265–268 The Pleasures of the Imagination (1744) Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale. Book I, line 220 Is aught so fairIn all the dewy landscapes of the spring,In the bright eye of Hesper or the morn,In nature's fairest forms, is aught so fairAs virtuous friendship? as the candid blushOf 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 crownsThe gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuseUnenvied treasures, and the snowy wingsOf Innocence and Love protect the scene? Book I, line 500–511 Man loves knowledge, and the beams of truthMore welcome touch his understanding's eyeThan all the blandishments of sound his ear,Than all of taste his tongue. Book II, lines 100–103 Oft the hoursFrom morn to eve have stolen unmark'd away,While mute attention hung upon his lips. Book II, lines 183–185 Ask the faithful youthWhy the cold urn of her whom long he lovedSo often fills his arms; so often drawsHis lonely footsteps at the silent hourTo pay the mournful tribute of his tears?Oh! he will tell thee that the wealth of worldsShould ne'er seduce his bosom to foregoThat sacred hour, when, stealing from the noiseOf care and envy, sweet remembrance soothesWith virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,And turns his tears to rapture. Book II, lines 683–693 Others of graver mien; behold, adorn'dWith holy ensigns, how sublime they move,And bending oft their sanctimonious eyesTake homage of the simple-minded throng;Ambassadors of heaven! Book III, lines 109–113 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! Book III, lines 173–178 Such and so various are the tastes of men! Book III, line 567 Odes on Several Subjects (1745) The Providence of heavenHas some peculiar blessing givenTo each allotted state below. Book I, Ode II, No. 1: "For the Winter Solstice", stanza v, lines 48–50 Heaven's all-subduing will,With good the progeny of ill,Attempreth every state below. Book I, Ode II, No. 2: "On the Winter Solstice", stanza vi, lines 58–60 Than Timoleon's arms require,And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. Book I, Ode XVII: "On a Sermon against Glory", stanza ii, lines 17–18 Rustic herald of the spring. Book II, Ode III: "To the Cuckoo", stanza i, line 1 Attributed Forty Thousand Quotations (1917) C. N. Douglas (ed.) Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical (1917) This was Shakespeare’s form;Who walked in every path of human life,Felt every passion; and to all mankindDoth now, will ever, that experience yieldWhich his own genius only could acquire. Hark! how the gentle echo from her cellTalks through the cliffs, and murmuring o’er the stream,Repeats the accent—we shall part no more. Others of graver mien, behold, adorn’dWith holy ensigns, how sublime they move,And bending oft their sanctimonious eyes,Take homage of the simple-minded throng;Ambassadors of heaven! Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys,And eagerly pursues imaginary joys. The immortal mind, superior to his fate,Amid the outrage of external things,Firm as the solid base of this great world,Rests on his own foundation. Blow, ye winds!Ye waves! ye thunders! roll your tempests on!Shake, ye old pillars of the marble sky!Till at its orbs and all its worlds of fireBe loosen’d from their seats; yet still serene,The unconquer’d mind looks down upon the wreck;And ever stronger as the storms advance,Firm through the closing ruin holds his way,When nature calls him to the destin’d goal. A double task to paint the finest features of the mind, and to most subtle and mysterious things give color, strength, and motion. Different minds incline to different objects; one pursues the vast alone, the wonderful, the wild; another sighs for harmony and grace, and gentlest beauty. From bounty issues power. The graceful tear that streams for others’ woes. The music of the heart. Thus was beauty sent from heaven, the lovely ministress of truth and good in this dark world. We taste the fragrance of the rose. What, then, is taste, but those internal powers, active and strong, and feelingly alive to each fine impulse? a discerning sense of decent and sublime, with quick disgust from things deformed, or disarranged, or gross in species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, nor purple state, nor culture, can bestow, but God alone when first his sacred hand imprints the secret bias of the soul. External links Mark_Akenside Mark Akenside Category:Poets from England Category:Physicians from England Category:1721 births Category:1770 deaths