English critic and poet, eldest son of Thomas Warton (see below), was baptized at Dunsfold, Surrey, on the 22nd of April 1722, and entered Winchester school on the foundation in 1735. William Collins was already there, and the two formed a friendship which was maintained through their Oxford career. They read Milton and Spenser together, and wrote verses, which, published in the Gentleman’s Magazine, attracted the attention of Dr Johnson. Warton went to Oriel College, Oxford, in 1740, and took his B.A. degree in 1744. He took holy orders, and during his father’s lifetime acted as his curate at Basingstoke. He then went to Chelsea, London; but eventually returned to Basingstoke. He married, ... more »
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Joseph Warton Poems
Ode to Music
Queen of every moving measure, Sweetest source of purest pleasure, Music; why thy powers employ Only for the sons of joy?
Verses on a Butterfly
Fair Child of Sun and Summer! we behold With eager eyes thy wings bedropp'd with gold; The purple spots that o'er thy mantle spread, The sapphire's lively blue, the ruby's red,
Ode to a Lady on the Spring
Lo! Spring, array'd in primrose-colour'd robe, Fresh beauties sheds on each enliven'd scene, With show'rs and sunshine cheers the smiling globe, And mantles hill and vale in glowing green.
The Enthusiast, or the Lover of Nature
Ye green-rob'd Dryads, oft' at dusky Eve By wondering Shepherds seen, to Forests brown, To unfrequented Meads, and pathless Wilds, Lead me from Gardens deckt with Art's vain Pomps.
Ode to Fancy
O parent of each lovely Muse, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, O'er all my artless songs preside, My footsteps to thy temple guide.
Comments about Joseph Warton
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Ode to Music
Queen of every moving measure,
Sweetest source of purest pleasure,
Music; why thy powers employ
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those, whom death, or absence parts,
And, with some softly whisper'd air,
Smooth the brow of dumb despair.