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RBW Online ISSUE 221

Words Exercises Assignments Fiction Projects Events Workshops Thoughts Your Pages Poetry News Items

Date: 27th January 2012

Thoughts & Quotes ... Federico Fellini ―There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the infinite passion of life.‖ Federico Fellini (20 January 1920 – 31 October 1993) was an influential Italian film director. Fellini's films typically combine elements of memory, dreams and fantasy. Among his films are La Strada, La Dolce Vita, 8½, and Amarcord.    

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   Cover Image Wikipedia Pancakes Issue 221 Page 2

All art is autobiographical; the pearl is the oyster‘s autobiography. Even if I set out to make a film about a fillet of sole, it would be about me. Cinema is an old whore, like circus and variety, who knows how to give many kinds of pleasure. Besides, you can‘t teach old fleas new dogs. Talking about dreams is like talking about movies, since the cinema uses the language of dreams; years can pass in a second and you can hop from one place to another. It‘s a language made of image. And in the real cinema, every object and every light means something, as in a dream. What is an artist? A provincial who finds himself somewhere between a physical reality and a metaphysical one... It‘s this in-between that I‘m calling a province, this frontier country between the tangible world and the intangible one — which is really the realm of the artist. There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the infinite passion of life. I don't believe in total freedom for the artist. Left on his own, free to do anything he likes, the artist ends up doing nothing at all. Money is everywhere but so is poetry. What we lack are the poets. I think television has betrayed the meaning of democratic speech, adding visual chaos to the confusion of voices. What role does silence have in all this noise? I discovered that what's really important for a creator isn't what we vaguely define as inspiration or even what it is we want to say, recall, regret, or rebel against. No, what's important is the way we say it. Art is all about craftsmanship. Others can interpret craftsmanship as style if they wish. Style is what unites memory or recollection, ideology, sentiment, nostalgia, presentiment, to the way we express all that. It's not what we say but how we say it that matters. A created thing is never invented and it is never true: it is always and ever itself. Everyone knows that time is Death, that Death hides in clocks. Imposing another time powered by the Clock of the Imagination, however, can refuse his law. Here, freed of the Grim Reaper's scythe, we learn that pain is knowledge and all knowledge pain. The public has lost the habit of movie-going because the cinema no longer possesses the charm, the hypnotic charisma, the authority it once commanded. The image it once held for us all — that of a dream we dreamt with our eyes open — has disappeared. Is it still possible that one thousand people might group together in the dark and experience the dream that a single individual has directed? Experience is what you get while looking for something else. It's easier to be faithful to a restaurant than it is to a woman. No critic writing about a film could say more than the film itself, although they do their best to make us think the opposite. Nietzsche claimed that his genius was in his nostrils and I think that is a very excellent place for it to be.

devil-may-care adj 1. Carefree or recklessly irresponsible. tipple v 1. To sell alcoholic liquor by retail. 2. To drink too much alcohol. equipage n 1. Equipment or supplies, especially military ones. A type of horse-drawn carriage. raccoon n 1. A nocturnal omnivore, originally of Northern America, typically with a mixture of greyish fur, a mask-like marking around the eyes, and a striped tail. 2. Any mammal of the genus Procyon. quango n 1. An organization that, although financed by a government, acts independently of it. dalliance n 1. A wasting of time in idleness or trifles. 2. Playful flirtation; amorous play. peremptory adj 1. Precluding debate or expostulation; not admitting of question or appeal. 2. Positive in opinion or judgment; decided; dogmatic.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Everybody seems grumpy when it’s raining. The sight of a gasman’s bottom mooning from inside his van as bent double he rooted for his paraphernalia and lost control of his trousers was not what I expected to see first thing of a morning as I opened my bedroom curtains. Shopping is better done early — fewer queues The earlier you get up the more you have to do! Nobody gets out of life alive. If money is made out of cotton and linen why is it illegal to launder? Living in a multi-cultural society presents both challenges and opportunities for the writer.

ASSIGNMENT: Batter or Heart (s) (400 words) Random Words: Johnson, side, last, udder, splenetic, humorous, nocturne, wintertime, oozed, crash, sienna (150 words max) Issue 221 Page 3

Don’t forget the cryptic clues ... 20 words. (please enclose answer)

Costa Book Awards: Andrew Miller wins with “Pure” his 6th novel PURE: a tale of emptying a cemetery in pre-revolutionary Paris wins the £30,000 prize

THESE CRYPTIC CLUES WILL TICKLE THE LITTLE GREY CELLS Here are a couple of ‘clues’ for your amusement:- (JT) 1. Muse, drawing breath 2. Lady, walk, that is, following penniless crew member Answers (if needed) 1. Inspiration 2. Step - han (d) - i.e. = Stephanie Hope these gave you a smile.

Random Words PMW The famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot was taking a well-deserved holiday in Egypt. He was enjoying cruising on the Nile and visiting the Valley of the Kings, when he was woken from his sleep one Tuesday night, by the ship’s captain. Apparently, a corpse had been found at the foot of the Great Pyramid at Giza, and the local police had asked for Poirot’s help. Professor Peabody, a well-respected and popular archaeologist had been found with a pair of scissors sticking out of his throat. The crime appeared motiveless, and the police were struggling to find a culprit. But there was an ancient curse on anyone who entered the Pharoah’s tomb. “Ah yes. I will have to rack the brains and get the little grey cells to engage with the facts”, he told Captain Hastings. “But,” he admitted, “Poirot, he likes a challenge!” Cryptic clue: You allow yourself to be walked all over without a word of complaint. How I wish I was so compliant. What am I? Answer: A carpet. Steph’s FREE poetry e-chapbook is now published on and on RBW main site The chapbook is illustrated by some of her original artwork. She is a member of Stafford Art Group and has exhibited some pieces locally.

CLIVE’s three free e-books NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu Issue 221 Page 4

Alice Schofield Rising Brook Writers In the early 1950s I was training to be a nurse and living with my parents in Farnworth, about three miles outside Bolton. Most Saturdays groups of us met at Trinity Street Station in Bolton and travelled together to Blackpool in the ‗Passion Wagons‘. They were happy, friendly, innocent, chatty journeys and when we got to Blackpool we danced at the Tower Ballroom and the Winter Gardens. I remember one memorable chat-up line. As we foxtrotted around the ballroom, this confident young man with his open shirt collar folded over his jacket lapels said, ‗You must be very strong.‘ Taken aback, I loosened my grip on his arm. Then he continued, ‗from strength comes forth sweetness and you‘re very sweet.‘ I later discovered he‘d been reading a Tate & Lyle syrup tin advert. I didn‘t travel back with him on the train. On the way home, one of the lads would take out the carriage light bulbs using a handkerchief. I recall lots of whispered giggles and when the light bulb was replaced just before arriving at Trinity Street, some of the passengers, looking flushed and with reddened lips from kissing, would be combing their hair and adjusting their collars. Many of us faced a long walk home as we didn‘t live in Bolton and my friend Isobel and I took it in turns to stay at each other‘s homes. Late one Saturday, a crowd of us walked to Harper Green where Isobel lived but when we arrived we realised that we had planned to stay at my house that night. Knowing my parents would be worried, I was anxious to let them know I was at Isobel‘s. In those days we weren‘t on the telephone so, being a dutiful daughter, I telephoned the local police station from a phone box and they agreed to inform my parents. When I arrived home the following afternoon, fully pleased that I had acted responsibly, I was met by a relieved but irate mother. ‗Where have you been?‘ she demanded. ‗Didn‘t the police let you know I was at Isobel‘s?‘ I asked. ‗The police? There was a note pushed through the door saying ―Miss Roscoe will not be home tonight‖ but it could have been written by Jack the Ripper.‘ Brenda Shirley Shakespeare Seniors Association I was born and raised in Stafford and never really had any playtime. My father died when I was two and my mother re-married when I was seven so with a brother and two sisters all a lot younger than me, I had to help take care of them. I used to love going to the Sandonia cinema, though, or ‗the flea pit‘ as it was called. There would be horror movies — with Bella Lugosi and Peter Lorrie who‘d terrify you so much you‘d go to bed with one eye open — and westerns. I adore a cowboy film even today. On a Saturday morning I‘d go to the Odeon cinema with my sixpence pocket money

(2½p) — which I‗d had to earn — and stand in the queue. When I came out I‘d still have money for a couple of pennyworth of chips in a paper cone from the chip shop right next door to the Odeon — they were the best chips in Stafford — and there‘d usually be a penny left over for some crusty bread. Every Sunday afternoon we all had to go to St Chad‘s Sunday School; even if you felt ill you still had to go. When I also went in the evening, Mother got quite worried because she thought I was getting fanatical about church. But it was just a lovely little church and I knew Mother could afford plums so when I got home I‘d have plum pie and custard for tea. We‘d often see a group of teenagers known as the Trilby Gang. They used to walk down Stafford town, all with trilbies on, and they‘d come across to say ‗Afternoon‘ or ‗Evening‘ and raise their hats. In those days the best thing for me was the radio. I used to listen to Dick Barton Special Agent, PC 49 and The Man in Black. When I was about 17, my boyfriend Don and I were babysitting my two sisters and brother. We had a door leading from the hall into the lounge but when you went from the lounge to the kitchen and dining area you came to another door back into the hall. I‘d gone into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and I heard The Man in Black come on. Don was well into the story when I came in from the hall and put my hand on his shoulder. How he jumped; I really frightened him. Don and I weren‘t much for TV. We thought radio was far better. After we were married we had a Grundig tape recorder and I used to record the afternoon play. On a Monday evening we‘d turn the lights down low and just let our imaginations go. Evelyn Williams Shakespeare Seniors Association Until I left school my life was very quiet. We lived way out in the country near Uckfield in Sussex. Our nearest neighbours were about two miles away and I went to a small country school. After school I got a job in a large country house but not a lot went on there either because we worked from morning till night with just Sunday afternoon off. Then the War came and I joined the WRAF at eighteen. It was frightening in a way: a totally new experience for somebody who wasn‘t used to meeting people and being in groups. But I soon became friends with a lot of the girls who had joined at the same time. I started off in Yorkshire on four different stations before moving down to Exeter, where I eventually met my husband. Being on bomber stations, we‘d see lists of men we knew personally who had gone out and hadn‘t come back. But in four years I was only once directly involved in the raids when an aircraft followed our bombers back and unloaded its bombs on the station. The stations were always out in the country so whenever we had time off we‘d walk in the countryside. They did show films in the NAAFI but most of our time we spent dancing to the Air Force band on the station. I went to one dance with a chap I‘d been seeing for a while. We went for a walk and when we came back the coach to take us to our accommodation had gone. There was another group of WRAFs there so I went back with them and got a lift to my camp

the next morning. I had to get past the guard on duty but I knew where there was a gap in the hedge so I got back without any difficulty. Everybody knew about that gap in the hedge but it was never fenced off. If it had been somebody would have opened it again because a lot of people went out of an evening and getting back by 10 o‘clock wasn‘t really convenient. Once I was caught getting through the hedge. They used to check one or two of the billets each night to make sure we were all in. One night they went to my billet and I wasn‘t there so that was it. I was marched in the next morning to explain, put on a charge and confined to camp for a week. That was the only time I was in real trouble, although it was different when I went on leave. Back home I went to the pictures with one lad I knew. We were walking back and I saw my dad standing there, lighting one cigarette after another as he usually did. It was no later than 10 o‘clock but he raged that I should be home in bed at that time. Fortunately the lad knew Dad and managed to calm him down. I thought here I am serving in the Forces but I‘m getting told off like that when I‘m home on leave. Janet Lawton Shakespeare Seniors Association I was born in Midway on the outskirts of Burton-upon-Trent and we moved into the town in 1939 when I was four. When I was a teenager I did a lot of cycling. Mum and Dad had a tandem and I used to go out with them on my bike. I only remember having one proper bike which I used to go to work on as well. One day we were out and stopped for a picnic by the river at Hawkestone. My dad had taken his shoes off and I pretended to throw his shoe in the river. Unfortunately it went in. He got it out but he wasn‘t best pleased about it. I started work at Worthington‘s in Burton when I was fifteen and that‘s where I met Fred. We used to go to the cinema on a Saturday night. There were three cinemas in Burton: the Electric, the Ritz and the Picturedrome which they sometimes called ‗the fleapit‘. It always seemed to be a western showing and we always had to queue. It‘s funny now to think how we‘d stand in the rain queuing for the pictures. It was one shilling and ninepence (about 9p) to go upstairs in the posh seats and sixpence (2½p) to go downstairs. Fred went in the Army and served in Korea for three years so we‘d go to the cinema when he was on leave and I‘d go with friends when he was away. Eventually we got engaged and were married in 1956. Going to see western films was always his idea and I even went to see Davy Crocket when I was pregnant. The seats were most uncomfortable. When we got married we had a television straight away because Fred had already bought it. He still watched the westerns when they came on the television years later — but I was never a convert.

Assignment AB

―The euro is the official currency of the eurozone,‖ she paused for effect, ―which means it is used by 17 of the 27 member states of the European Union, also the euro is used by all the Institutions of the European Union,‖ added the tour guide, while pointing with a rolled up brolly at the glass sided building surrounded by flags, and only just managing to keep the tiredness out of her voice. ―The eurozone consists of Austria, Belgium, Cyprus, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, Malta, the Netherlands, Portugal, Slovakia, Slovenia, and Spain.‖ Gloria groaned and dug a pointed elbow into Vera‘s spare tyre. Vera frowned, and reluctantly crashed the pear drops, wishing she hadn‘t come on the tour. ―The euro is also used in a further five European countries and thus used by 332 million Europeans. Additionally, over 175 million people worldwide - including 150 million people in Africa - use currencies which are pegged to the euro.‖ ―Pegged to what?‖ whispered Vera salivating. ―How can you peg out money?‖ ―The euro is the second largest reserve currency after the US dollar. As of November 2011, with nearly 891 billion euros in circulation, the euro has the highest combined value of banknotes and coins in circulation in the world.‖ ―Crikey,‘ added Gloria, trying her best to sound interested while checking her watch. It was still ages until tea time. ―Based on International Monetary Fund estimates of 2008 and purchasing power parity among the various currencies, the eurozone is the second largest economy in the world.‖ ―Fancy!‖ said Vera nodding enthusiastically to those poor souls standing around all looking just as bored as she was, even though she hadn‘t a clue what the woman in the blue suit had just said. Gloria‘s eyes had glazed over into a wide stare at ‗purchasing power parity‘. Fixated on Gloria‘s blank expression, the tour guide speeded up: ―The name euro was officially adopted on 16 December 1995. The euro was introduced to world financial markets on 1 January 1999. Euro coins and banknotes entered circulation on 1 January 2002.‖ Gloria made with the elbow and the loud whispered aside, once again: ―I remember that, do you remember, our Vera? When we were in Venice on that Turkey and Tinsel Tour and had all our money mixed up. What a palaver.‖ Vera smiled, she remembered Venice all right. The smell of that canal she‘d fallen into getting out of that gondola had never come out of her second best cardi no matter how many times she washed it. ―Since 2009 the euro has been at the centre of the European sovereign debt crisis.‖ ―Oh, our Vera, that‘s the first thing she‘s said I‘ve understood.‖ ―Hasn‘t her finished yet? Can we have a cuppa now?‖ asked Vera sounding pathetic in her pink plastic poncho. She had only come on the free optional walking tour of the finance sector because it promised free refreshments in the brochure. She really hoped this trip to Belgium improved when it stopped raining, where were the lashings of chocs, chips and beer she had been so looking forward to? Random words: Mr. Peabody liked a challenge so when his friend Mr. Rowntree suggested a visit to the Pyramids of Giza, he was all for it, so taking the scissors from the drawer he carefully cut out the pictures of the Nile Valley, and all that the tour brochure suggested. Then he pinned them onto the rack above his desk where he could read them again and again. Mr. Peabody was particular about such details, and on that Tuesday night he faced the challenge which they had decided on. He went to bed happy knowing that he would sleep well. Cryptic Clues. We all have one, under over or squeezed in somewhere: “ It's all rubbish,” said the better half as he searched. Issue 221 Page 8

(EH ... Answer: Glory Hole (the place in a home where unused ‘treasures’ are stored)

Digital Unite Newsletter

(Extracts from)

CHECK OUT THE LEARNING ZONE FOR HELP WITH YOUR NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS It’s that time of year when we all vow to get into shape, sort out our finances, reconnect with friends and family and maybe take a course or two. It’s not so easy to keep those resolutions though, so why not get all the help you can from our Learning Zone? We have guides on everything from kick-starting a healthy new lifestyle to managing your money online, exploring new places using Google maps or taking a course without even leaving the sofa. And keeping in touch with friends and family is easy using our guides to Skype and Facebook. So there really isn’t any excuse not to keep that New Year resolution – just visit <> SPRING ONLINE 2012 – 23-27 APRIL Spring Online is Digital Unite’s award-winning campaign to give older users a taste of computers and the internet.Last year, the campaign helped an incredible 50,000 older people get online at 2,500 events around the country. The Spring Online Best Event Awards were hosted by the Right Hon Iain Duncan Smith MP and the campaign received the prestigious Nominet Internet Award for Building a Networked Nation. Spring Online 2012 will take place from 23-27 April. It’s your chance to help older people get to grips with computers and the internet by holding taster sessions in your community. These can be held anywhere from your living room to classrooms, pubs, sheltered housing schemes or libraries. It’s up to you how you organise your event – but we’ll support you all the way with extensive online resources. Often, the main barriers for older people are lack of confidence and understanding. All they need is someone to get them started, show them the basics and make it fun! Holding a Spring Online taster session can really help. Visit the website at <> for more details of how you can get involved in making Spring Online 2012 the biggest and best ever! WELCOME TO OUR NEW TUTORS Six new tutors have joined our UK-wide network to offer home-based computer and internet tuition at affordable prices. They are based in Aberdeen, East Fife, Broadstairs, Devon, Leeds and South East London. If you are looking for one-to-one tuition tailored to your own needs and abilities, take a look at <> or phone 0800 228 9272 to find a tutor near you. AND CONGRATULATIONS TO THOSE WHO ARE NOW QUALIFIED DIGITAL CHAMPIONS Congratulations to 11 of our tutors who have passed the Digital Champion ITQ qualification and are now fully-fledged Digital Champions and assessors for the pilot of this innovative e-learning programme and received their diplomas at a celebratory lunch in London last month. With the pilot soon coming to an end, we are now planning the launch of the Academy and ITQ qualification – watch out for details of the course and how to enrol at: <>

TUTOR INDUCTION WORKSHOP Our next tutor Induction Workshop is planned for 12 March in Leicester. If you know anyone who is passionate about helping others get online and would be interested in joining our tutor network, please email for a prospectus. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE ON THE DIGITAL UNITE WEBSITE? We are asking visitors to our website to complete a short survey to make sure we provide the content you want. Everyone who completes this short, anonymous survey will be entered into a draw to win a £50 Amazon voucher. We hope you’ll take part too so we can incorporate your views and tailor our content accordingly. You can find the survey at <https://> COME ALONG TO OUR NEXT SOCIAL HOUSING FORUM This will take place at Microsoft in London on 26 March and is an opportunity for housing providers and suppliers to get together to look at how digital services can benefit residents. It is also a great forum to network, share ideas and keep up to date with the latest news around the digital inclusion agenda. See our blog about the last social housing forum at <> and email for more infor. DATES FOR YOUR DIARY VISIT US AT SEE IT IN ACTION We’ll be taking part in the See IT in Action event in London on 21 February, which is designed to demonstrate how councils and partners can use technology to transform the way they deliver a range of local services including health, housing, social care, education and community safety. More information at <> CENTRE FOR HOUSING AND SUPPORT WINTER CONFERENCE The Open Public Services White Paper consolidates much of the Government’s thinking on the future direction of public services. The Centre for Housing and Support conference will draw on these proposals and examine the potential impact on housing-related support providers and service users. This is a key event for sheltered and supported housing professionals and service Users. It will take place at Leeds Novotel on 1 March 2012 and Cheltenham Park on 22 March 2012. For more information visit <>, telephone Carol Holt on 01905 727262 or email MYFRIENDSONLINE WEEK - 19-25 MARCH 2012 Help older people to discover the social side of the internet during Age UK’s annual digital inclusion campaign to combat loneliness and isolation, myfriendsonline. For more information see < myfriendsonline> or sign up to Age UK’s digital inclusion newsletter by emailing Communications Manager Digital Unite <>Follow us <> Become a fan – < digitalunite>

RESEARCH DIARY DATES You may be doing a historical piece, or thought about one anyway, so here is a chance to do some serious, and cheap, research and maybe get some hands-on experience into the bargain. These are open to anyone, visitors don’t have to be members of a group or association. They are also one of the few times and places in the UK where you'll see tables of weapons of all sorts and folks walking carrying guns, swords, daggers, pole arms etc and people taking no notice of it.

The Original Re-enactors Market. 16th, 17th and 18th March 2012. Friday 12.00 to 6.00. Saturday 10.00 to 5.00. Sunday 10.00 to 4.00 Sports Connexion, Leamington Rd., Ryton on Dunsmore, CV8 3FL. Yes, you do pay to get in [£4.50] and there are bars and food. Real artisans producing furniture, pottery, jewellery, clothing, arms and armour, etc.

There's a fashion show at 1.30 on the Saturday and 1.00 on the Sunday. The theme advertised is “Costumes from the Movies” Free parking on site! IF YOU CAN'T WAIT THAT LONG YOU COULD TRY THIS ONE

The International Living History Fair 24th, 25th & 26th Feb. Friday 1200-1800hrs. Saturday, 1000-1700hrs Sunday, 1000-1600hrs Bruntingthorpe Proving Ground, Bath Lane, Bruntingthorpe, LE17 5QS £4 Adult. £1.50 Under 16s. FREE for under fours. Parking for 3000+ cars

CRIME FICTION NEWS: Hachette have launched The Agatha Christie Book Collection: a set of hardbacks based on original first editions, each with an accompanying magazine. The dust jacket is a faithful replica of the original first edition cover artwork, and also features contemporary advertisements for Collins Crime Club titles. The hardback covers are red with black titles. For each of Christie's novels and short story collections the magazine contains interesting information for her fans details about Agatha Christie's life and times, the scene of the crime, the suspects, her inspiration etc. Issue One is possibly the author's most celebrated case, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, featuring her famous Belgian detective character, Hercule Poirot. Issue 1 is on sale at the introductory offer price of £1.99. Issue 221 Page 11

THE POETRY SLOT Rev. William Thompson was an 18th century English poet. William Thompson was the son of Rev. Francis Thompson, vicar of Brough in Westmoreland; Thompson’s date of birth is not known. Thompson studied at Queen's College, Oxford, and graduated with a Master of Arts in 1738, later becoming a fellow of the college. Thompson published his poems in two volumes in 1757. Later he became Dean of Raphoe, County Donegal, and is believed to have died in Ireland before 1767. He is best known for the poem Sickness (1746), which discusses various illnesses including melancholy, fever and consumption. Other poems include Epithalamium, Nativity, and Hymn to May.

Ethereal Daughter of the lusty Spring, And sweet Favonius; ever-gentle MAY! Shall I, unblam'd presume of Thee to sing, And with thy living colours gild my lay? Thy genial spirit mantles in my brain; My numbers languish in a softer vein: I pant, too emulous, to flow in Spenser's strain. Say, mild Aurora of the blooming year, With storms when winter blackens nature's face; When whirling winds the howling forest tear, And shake the solid mountains from their base: Say, what refulgent chambers of the sky Veil thy beloved glories from the eye, For which the nations pine, and earth's fair children die? Where Leda's twins, forth from their diamond-tow'r, Alternate, o'er the night their beams divide; In light embosom'd, happy, and secure From winter-rage, thou chusest to abide. Blest residence! For, there, as Poets tell, The pow'rs of Poetry and Wisdom dwell; Apollo, wakes the Arts; the Muses, strike the shell. Certes o'er Rhedicyna's laurel'd mead, (For ever spread, ye lawrels, green and new!) The brother-stars their gracious nurture shed, And secret blessings of poetic-dew. They bathe their horses in the learned flood, With flame recruited for th' aethereal road; And deem fair Isis' swans fair as their Father-god. No sooner April, trim'd with Girlands gay, Rains fragrance o'er the world, and kindly showrs; But, in the Eastern-pride of beauty, May, To gladden earth, forsakes her heav'nly bow'rs, Restoring Nature from her palsy'd state. April, retire; ne longer, Nature, wait: Soon may she issue from the morning's golden gate.

Issue 221 Page 12

Come, bounteous May! in Fulness of thy might, Lead, briskly, on the mirth-infusing hours, All-recent from the bosom of delight, With nectar, nurtur'd; and involv'd in flow'rs: By Spring's sweet blush, by nature's teeming womb; By Hebe's dimply smile, by Flora's bloom; By Venus'-self (for Venus'-self demands thee) come!

By the warm sighs, in dewy even-tide, Of melting maidens, in the wood-bin-groves, To pity loosen'd, soften'd down from pride; By billing Turtles, and by cooing Doves; By the youth's plainings stealing on the Air, (For youths will plain, tho' yielding be the fair) Hither, to bless the maidens and the youths, repair. With dew bespangled, by the Hawthorn-buds, With freshness breathing, by the daisy'd plains, By the mix'd music of the warbling woods, And jovial roundelays of nymphs and swains; In thy full energy, and rich array, Delight of earth and heav'n! O blessed May! From heav'n descend to earth: on earth vouchsafe to stay. She comes! — A silken Camus, emral'd-green, Gracefully loose, adown her shoulder's flows, (Fit to enfold the Limbs of Paphos' Queen) And with the labours of the needle glows, Purfled by Nature's Hand! The amorous air And musky-western breezes, fast, repair, Her mantle proud to swell, and wanton with her hair. Her hair (but rather threads of light it seems) With the gay honours of the spring intwind, Copious, unbound, in nectar'd ringlets streams, Floats glitt'ring on the sun, and scents the wind, Love-sick with odours! — Now to order roll'd, It melts upon her bosom's dainty mould, Or, curling round her waist, disparts its wavy gold. Young-circling roses, blushing, round them throw The sweet abundance of their purple rays, And lillies, dip'd in fragrance, freshly blow, With blended beauties, in her angel-face. The humid radiance beaming from her eyes The air and seas illumes, the earth and skies; And open, where she smiles, the sweets of Paradise. On Zephyr's wing the laughing goddess view, Distilling balm. She cleaves the buxom air, Attended by the silver-footed dew, The ravages of winter to repair. She gives her naked bosom to the gales, Her naked bosom down the Aether sails; Her bosom breaths delight; her breath the spring exhales. All as the Phenix, in Arabian Skies, New-burnish'd from his spicy funeral Pyres, At large, in roseal undulation, flies; His plumage dazzles and the gazer tires: Around their King the plumy nations wait, Attend his triumph, and augment his state: He tow'ring, claps his wings, and wins th' Aethereal height. So round this Phenix of the gawdy year A thousand, nay ten thousand sports and smiles, Fluttering in gold, along the Hemisphere, Her praises chaunt; her praises glad the isles. Conscious of her approach (to deck her bow'rs) Earth, from her fruitful lap and bosom, pours A waste of springing sweets, and voluntary flow'rs.

Narcissus fair, in snowy velvet gown'd; Ah foolish! still to love the fountain-brim: Sweet Hyacinth, by Phaebus erst bemoan'd; And tulip, flaring in her powder'd trim. Whate're, Armida, in thy gardens blew; Whate're the sun inhales, or sips the dew; Whate're compose the chaplet on Ianthes' brow. He who undaz'd can wander o'er her face, May gain upon the solar-blaze at noon!â&#x20AC;&#x201D; What more than female sweetness, and a grace Peculiar! save, Ianthe, thine alone, Ineffable effusion of the day! So very much the same, that Lovers say, May is Ianthe; or the dear Ianthe, May. So far as doth the harbinger of day The lesser lamps of night in sheen excell; So far in sweetness and in beauty May Above all other months doth bear the bell. So far as May doth other months exceed So far in virtue and in goodlihead Above all other nymphs Ianthe bears the meed. Welcome! as to a youthful poet, wine, To fire his fancy, and enlarge his soul: He weaves the lawrel-chaplet with the vine, And grows immortal as he drains the bowl. Welcome! as beauty to the lovesick swain, For which he long had sigh'd, but sigh'd in vain; He darts into her arms, and rushes from his pain. The drowzy Elements, arouz'd by thee, Roll to harmonious measures, active all! Earth, water, air, and fire, with feeling glee, Exult to celebrate thy festival. Fire glows intenser; softer, blows the air; More smooth the waters flow; earth smiles more fair: Earth, water, air and fire, thy gladning impulse share. What boundless tides of splendor o'er the skies, O'erflowing brightness stream their golden rays! Heav'ns azure kindles with the varying dies, Reflects the glory, and returns the blaze. Air whitens; wide the Tracts of Aether been With colours damask'd rich, and goodly sheen, And all above, is blue; and all below is green. At thy approach, the wild waves' loud uproar, And foamy surges of the mad'ning main, Forget to heave their mountains to the shore; Diffus'd into the level of the plain. For thee, the Halcyon builds her summer's-nest; For thee, the Ocean smooths her troubled breast, Gay from thy placid smiles, in thy own purple drest. Have ye not seen, in gentle even-tide, When Jupiter the earth hath richly showr'd, Striding the clouds, a bow dispredden-wide As if with light inwove, and gayly flowr'd With bright variety of blending dies? White, purple, yellow melt along the skies, Alternate colours sink, alternate colours rise. The earths embroidery then have ye ey'd, And smile of blossoms, yellow, purple, white; Their vernal-tinctur'd leaves, luxurious, died In Flora's liv'ry, painted by the light. Lights' painted children in the breezes play, Lay out their dewy bosoms to the ray,

Their soft enamel spread, and beautify the day. From the wide altar of the foodful earth The flowrs, the herbs, the plants, their incense roll; The Orchards swell the ruby-tinctur'd Birth; The Vermil-gardens breath the spicy soul. Grateful to May, the Nectar-spirit flies, The wafted Clouds of lavish'd Odours rise, The Zephyr's balmy load, ambitious of the skies. The Bee, the golden daughter of the spring, From mead to mead, in wanton labour, roves, And loads its little thigh, or gilds its wing With all the essence of the flushing groves: Extracts the aromatick soul of flow'rs, And, humming in delight, its waxen Bow'rs Fills with the luscious spoil, and lives ambrosial hours. Touch'd by thee, May, the flocks and lusty droves That low in pastures, or on mountains bleat, Revive their frolicks and renew their loves, Stung to the marrow with a generous heat. The stately courser, bounding o'er the plain, Shakes to the winds the honours of his mane, (High-arch'd his neck) and, snuffing, hopes the dappled train. The aereal songsters sooth the list'ning groves: The mellow thrush; the ouzle sweetly shrill, And little linnet celebrate their loves In hawthorn valley, or on tufted hill; The soaring lark, the lowly nightingale, A thorn her pillow, trills her doleful tale, And melancholy musick dies along the dale. This gay exuberance of gorgeous spring, The gilded mountain, and the herbag'd vale; The woods that blossom, and the birds that sing, The murmuring fountain and the breathing dale. The dale, the fountain, birds and woods delight, The vales, the mountains and the spring invite, Yet unadorn'd by May, no longer charm the sight. When nature laughs around, shall man alone, Thy image, hang (ah me!) the sickly head? When nature sings, shall nature's glory groan, And languish for the pittance poor of bread? O may the man that shall his image scorn, Alive, be ground with hunger, most forlorn, Die unanell'd, and dead, by dogs and kites be torn. Curs'd may he be (as if he were not so.) Nay doubly curs'd be such a breast of steel, Which never melted at another's woe, Nor tenderness of bowels knew to feel. His heart is black as hell, in flowing store Who hears the needy crying at his door, Who hears them cry, ne recks; but suffers them be poor. But blest, O more than doubly blest be he! Let honour crown him and eternal rest, Whose bosom, the sweet fount of charity, Flows out to noursle Innocence distrest. His ear is open to the widows cries, His hand the orphan's cheek of sorrow drys; Like mercy's self he looks on want with pity's eyes. In this blest season, pregnant with delight, Ne may the boading owl with screeches wound The solemn silence of the quiet night, Ne croaking raven, with unhallow'd sound,

Ne damned ghost affray with deadly yell The waking lover, rais'd by mighty spell, To pale the stars, till Hesper shine it back to hell. Ne witches rifle gibbets, by the moon, (With horror winking, trembling all with with fear) Of many a clinking chain, and canker'd bone: Nor Imp in visionary shape appear, To blast the thriving verdure of the plain; Ne let Hobgoblin, ne the Ponk, profane With shadowy glare the light, and mad the bursting brain. Yet fairy-elves (so ancient custom's will) The green-gown'd fairy elves, by starry sheen, May gambol or in valley or on hill, And leave their footsteps on the circled green. Full lightly trip it, dapper Mab, around; Full featly, Ob'ron, Thou, o'er grass-turf bound: Mab brushes off no dew-drops, Ob'ron prints no ground. Ne bloody rumours violate the ear, Of city's sack'd, and kingdoms desolate, With plague or sword, with pestilence or war; Ne rueful murder stain thy aera-date; Ne shameless calumny, for fell despight, The foulest fiend that e'er blasphem'd the light, At lovely lady rail, nor grin at courteous knight. Ne wailing in our streets nor fields be heard, Ne voice of misery assault the heart; Ne fatherless from table be debar'd; Ne piteous tear from eye of sorrow start; But plenty, pour thy self into the bowl Of bounty-head; may never want controul That good, good honest man, who feeds the famish'd soul. Now let the trumpet's martial thunders sleep; The viol wake alone, and tender flute: The Phrygian Lyre with sprightly fingers sweep, And, Erato, dissolve the Lydian lute. Yet Clio frets, and burns, with honest pain, To rouze and animate the martial strain, Since William charg'd the Foe at well-fought Culloden. The Trumpet sleeps, but soon for Thee shall wake, Illustrious CHIEF! to sound thy mighty name, (Snatch'd from the malice of Lethean lake) Triumphant-swelling from the mouth of Fame. Mean while, disdain not (so the Virgins pray) This rosy crown, with Myrtle wove and Bay; (Too humble crown I ween:) the offering of May. And while the Virgins hail thee with their voice, Heaping thy crowded way with greens and flow'rs, And in the fondness of their heart rejoice To sooth, with dance and song, thy gentler hours: Indulge the season, and with sweet repair Embay thy limbs, the vernal blessing share: Then blaze in arms again, renew'd for foreign war. Through kind Infusion of celestial pow'r, The dullard-earth May quick'neth with delight: Full suddenly the seeds of joy recure Elastick spring, and force within empight. If senseless elements invigorate prove By genial May; and heavy matter move, Shall shepherdesses cease, shall shepherds fail to love?

Ye shepherdesses, in a goodly round, Purpled with health, as in the greenwood-shade, Incontinent ye thump the echoing ground And defftly lead the dance along the glade; (O may no showres your merry-makes affray!) Hail at the op'ning, at the closing day, All hail, ye Bonnibels, to your own Season, May. Nor ye absent yourselves, ye shepherd swains, But lend to dance and song the liberal May, And while in jocund ranks you beat the plains, Your flocks shall nibble and your lambkins play, Frisking in glee. To May your girlands bring, And ever and anon her praises sing: The woods shall echo May, with May the vallies ring. Your May-pole deck with flow'ry Coronal; Sprinkle the flow'ry Coronal with wine; And in the nimble-footed Galliard, all, Shepherds and Shepherdesses, lively, join. Hither from village sweet and hamlet fair, From bordering cot and distant glenne repair: Let youth indulge its sport, to Eld bequeath its care. Ye wanton Dryads and light-tripping Fawns, Ye jolly Satyrs, full of lustyhead, And ye that haunt the hills, the brooks, the lawns; O come with rural Chaplets gay dispread: With heel so nimble wear the springing grass, To shrilling bagpipe, or to tingling brass; Or foot it to the reed: Pan pipes himself apace. In this soft season, when creation smil'd, A quivering splendor on the ocean hung, And from the fruitful froth, his fairest child, The Queen of bliss and beauty, Venus sprung. The Dolphins gambol o'er the wat'ry way, Carrol the Naids, while the Triton's play, And all the sea-green sisters bless the holy-day. In Honour of her natal-month the Queen Of bliss and beauty, consecrates her hours, Fresh as her cheek, and as her brow serene, To buxom Ladies, and their Paramours. Love tips with golden alchimy his dart; With rapt'rous anguish, with an honey'd smart Eye languishes on eye, and heart dissolves on heart. A softly-swelling hill, with Myrtles crown'd, (Myrtles to Venus algates sacred been) Hight Acidale, the fairest spot on ground, For ever fragrant and for ever green, O'erlooks the windings of a shady vale, By beauty form'd for amorous regale. Was ever hill so sweet, as sweetest Acidale? All down the sides, the sides profuse of flow'rs, An hundred rills, in shining mazes, flow Through mossy grotto's Amaranthine bow'rs, And form a laughing flood in Vale below: Where oft their limbs the Loves and Graces bay (When Summer sheds insufferable day) And sport, and dive, and flounce in wantonness of play. No Noise o'ercomes the silence of the shades, Save short-breath'd vows, the dear excess of joy; Or harmless giggle of the youths and maids, Who yield obeysance to the Cyprian Boy:

Or lute, soft-sighing in the passing gale; Or fountain, gurgling down the sacred vale, Or hymn to Beauty's Queen, or Lover's tender tale. Here Venus revels, here maintains her Court In light festivity and gladsome game: The young and gay, in frolick troops resort, Withouten censure and withouten blame. In pleasure steep'd, and dancing in delight, Night steals upon the day; the day, on night: Each Knight, his Lady loves; each Lady loves her Knight. Where lives the man (if such a man there be) In idle wilderness or desart drear, To Beauty's sacred pow'r an enemy? Let foul fiends harrow him; I'll drop no tear. I deem that Carl, by beauty's pow'r unmov'd, Hated of heav'n, of none but hell approv'd. O may he never love, O never be belov'd! Hard is his heart, unmelted by thee, May! Unconscious of love's nectar-tickling sting, And, unrelenting, cold to Beauty's ray; Beauty the mother and the child of spring! Beauty and Wit declare the sexes even; Beauty, to Woman, Wit to Man is given; Neither the slime of earth, but each the fire of Heav'n. Alliance sweet! let Beauty, Wit approve, As Flow'rs to Sunshine ope the ready breast: Wit Beauty loves, and nothing else can love: The best alone is grateful to the best. Perfection has no other parallel! Can Light, with Darkness; Doves with Ravens dwell? As soon, perdie, shall Heav'n Communion hold with Hell. I sing to you, who love alone for love: For gold the beauteous fools (O fools before!) Can win; tho' brighter wit shall never move: But folly is to wit the certain Cure. Curs'd be the men, (or be they young or old) Curs'd be the women, who themselves have sold To the detested bed for lucre base of Gold. Not Julia such: she higher honour deem'd To languish in the Sulmo-Poet's arms, Than by the potentates of earth esteem'd, To give to scepters and to crowns her charms. Not Laura such: in sweet Vauclusa's Vale She list'ned to her Petrarch's amorous tale. But did poor Colin Clout o'er Rosalind prevail? Howe'er that be; in Acidalian shade, Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the day: No dreams of banishment his loves invade; Encircled in eternity of May. Here Petrarch with his Laura, soft reclin'd On Violets, gives sorrow to the Wind: And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Rosalind. Pipe on, thou sweetest of the th' Arcadian-train, That e'er with tuneful breath inform'd the quill: Pipe on of Lovers the most loving Swain! Of bliss and melody O take thy fill. Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe smile, Tho' low my numbers, and tho' rude my stile; Ne quit for Acidale, fair Albion's happy isle.

Come then, Ianthe! milder than the Spring, And grateful as the rosy mouth of May, O come; the birds the Hymn of Nature sing, Inchanting-wild, from every bush and spray: Th' odrous Gemms swell teeming from the Vine, A lucious promise of the future Wine, The spirits to exalt, the genius to refine! Let us our steps direct where Father-Thames. In silver windings draws his humid train, And pours, where'er he rolls his naval-stream, Pomp on the city, plenty o'er the plain. Or by the banks of Isis shall we stray, (Ah why so long from Isis banks away!) Where thousand damsels dance, and thousand shepherds play. Or chuse you rather Theron's calm Retreat, Embosom'd, Surry, in thy verdant vale, At once the Muses and the Graces seat! There gently listen to my faithful tale. Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove, Or taste the Odours of the Mazy Grove: Hark how the Turtles coo: I languish too with love. Amid the pleasaunce of Arcadian scenes, Love steals his silent arrows on my breast; Nor falls of water, nor enamel'd greens, Can sooth my Anguish, or invite to rest. You, dear Ianthe, you alone impart Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my smart: The Apple of my Eye, the life-blood of my Heart. With line of silk, with hook of barbed steel, Beneath this Oaken umbrage let us lay, And from the water's crystal-bosom steal Upon the grassy bank the finny prey: The Perch, with purple speckled manifold; The Eel, in silver labyrinth self-roll'd, And Carp, all-burnish'd o'er with drops of scaly gold. Or shall the meads invite, with Iris-hues And nature's pencil gay-diversify'd, (For now the sun has lick'd away the dews) Fair-flushing and bedeck'd like virgin-bride? Thither, (for they invite us) we'll repair, Collect and weave (whate'er is sweet and fair) A posy for thy breast, a garland for thy hair. Fair is the lilly, clad in balmy snow; Sweet is the rose, of spring the smiling eye; Nipt by the winds, their heads the lillies bow; Cropt by the hand, the roses fade and dye. Tho' now in pride of youth and beauty drest, O think, Ianthe, cruel Time lays waste The roses of the cheek, the lillies of the breast. Weep not; but, rather taught by this, improve The present freshness of thy springing prime: Bestow thy graces on the god of love, Too precious for the wither'd arms of Time. In chaste endearments, innocently gay, Ianthe! now, now love thy spring away; Ere cold October-blasts despoil the bloom of May. Now up the Chalky mazes of yon Hill, With grateful diligence, we wind our way; What op'ning scenes our ravish'd senses fill, And, wide, their rural luxury display!

Woods, dales, and flocks, and herds, and Cots and spires, Villa's of learned Clerks, and gentle Squires; The Villa of a Friend the Eye-sight never tires. If er'e to thee and Venus, May, I strung The gladsome lyre, when livelood swell'd my veins, And Eden's nymphs and Isis damsels sung In tender elegy, and pastoral strains; Collect and shed thyself on Theron's bowr's, O green his gardens, O perfume his flow'rs, O bless his morning-walks and sooth his ev'ning-hours. Long, Theron, with thy Annabell enjoy The Walks of Nature, still to virtue kind, For sacred Solitude can never cloy; The Wisdom of an uncorrupted mind! O very long may Hymen's golden chain To earth confine you and the rural-reign; Then soar, at length, to heav'n! nor pray, O muse, in vain. Wherer'e the Muses haunt, or Poets muse, In solitary silence sweetly tir'd, Unloose thy bosom, May! thy stores effuse, Thy vernal stores, by Poets most desir'd, Of living fountain, of the wood-bin shade, Of Philomel, thick warbling from the glade. Thy bounty, in his verse, shall Certes be repay'd. On Twit'nam-bow'rs (who knows not Twit'nam bow'rs) Thy thickest plenitude of beauties shed, Thick as the winter-stars, or summer-flow'rs; Albe the tuneful Master (ah!) be dead. To Colin next he taught my youth to sing, My reed to warble, to resound my string: The king of Shepherd's He, of Poet's He the king. Hail, happy scenes, where Joy wou'd chuse to dwell; Hail, golden days, which Saturn deems his own; Hail musick, which the Muses scant excell; Hail Flowrets, not unworthy Venus' crown. Ye Linnets, Larks; ye Thrushes, Nightingales; Ye hills, ye plains, ye groves, ye streams, ye gales, Ye ever-happy scenes! all you, your Poet hails. All-hail to thee, O MAY! the Crown of all! The Recompence and glory of my song: Ne small the recompence, ne glory small, If gentle ladies, and the Tuneful Throng, With lovers myrtle, and with Poet's Bay Fairly bedight, approve the simple lay, And think on Thomalin whene'er they hail thee, MAY!

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Issue 221

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Issue 221 RBW Online  

Issue 221 RBW Online weekly magazine