Poems with rhymes of reads

The man that is not moved with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,

But by a holier light thy angel reads
The unseen records of more gentle deeds,--

But this from love, not vanity proceeds;
You know who writes, and I who 'tis that reads.

Large resolutions, little deeds;
Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds
Until the blotted record reads,

Or posed, whoever reads:
No commentator’s tedious gloss,
Nor even index needs.

Your intellect staggers and falls and bleeds,
Weary of writing what nobody reads.

Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads
Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds."

And ill your minds my partial judgment reads,
And many an augury my hope misleads,

For which the madman bleeds ;
'Tis but a record on the page,
One of a thousand reads.

Guasco the fourth, Ridolpho him succeeds,
Then Ulderick whom love list so advance,
Lord William of Ronciglion next he reads,

Sigh out a story of her cruel deeds,
With interrupted accents of despair:
A monument that whosoever reads

But no one ever heeds;
Their print is clear and candid too,
Yet no one ever reads.

He told of arms, and featly deeds,
Whereat one leaps the while he reads,

He shakes his head and still proceeds
Neer doubting once of what he reads

Around us dwells the secret no man reads!
About us swells the music none can hear!
Behind us lie the ruins of the creeds!

But he who has at heart the deeds
Of thy heroic offspring reads

A precious old classic that nobody reads,
And nobody asks for, and nobody heeds;

Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds;
Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour,
In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads

That love and loving deeds
May conquer strife and passion;
For thus His promise reads.

Turns no new leaf, but still the same things reads ;
Seen things he sees again, heard things doth hear,
And makes his life but like a pair of beads.