10 Best Famous Ben Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Ben poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ben poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ben poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of ben poems.

• All Famous Ben Poems

Consider this small dust here running in the glass,
By atoms moved;
Could you believe that this the body was 
Of one that loved?
And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kisse but in the cup, 
And Ile not looke for wine. 
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, 
Doth aske a drinke divine: 
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup, 
I would not change for thine. 
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, 
Not so much honoring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 
It could not withered bee. 
But thou thereon did'st onely breath, 
And sent'st it back to mee: 
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare, 
Not of it selfe, but thee. 

Let it not your wonder move, 
Less your laughter, that I love. 
Though I now write fifty years, 
I have had, and have, my peers. 
Poets, though divine, are men; 
Some have loved as old again. 
And it is not always face, 
Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, 
Or the feature, or the youth; 
But the language and the truth, 
With the ardor and the passion, 
Gives the lover weight and fashion. 
If you then would hear the story, 
First, prepare you to be sorry 
That you never knew till now 
Either whom to love or how; 
But be glad as soon with me 
When you hear that this is she 
Of whose beauty it was sung, 
She shall make the old man young, 
Keep the middle age at stay, 
And let nothing hide decay, 
Till she be the reason why 
All the world for love may die. 

 We have all of us read how the Israelites fled 
From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, 
And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" 
When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. 
The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" 
That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. 
You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- 
Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". 
For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears 
In deserts with never a famine to follow by, 
The Israelite horde went roaming abroad 
Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby". 
When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, 
Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: 
I give you command of the whole of the band" -- 
And handed the Government over to Joshua. 

But Moses told 'em before he died, 
"Wherever you are, whatever betide, 
Every year as the time draws near 
By lot or by rote choose you a goat, 
And let the high priest confess on the beast 
The sins of the people the worst and the least, 
Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer. 
Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future. 
Then lead him away to the wilderness black 
To die with the weight of your sins on his back: 
Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, 
For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 

'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity 
This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. 
By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, 
Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, 
Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, 
Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate; 
Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat? 
It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture 
By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a 
Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose 
Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. 

In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 
'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, 
When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; 
Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers 
Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, 
That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. 
Be that as it may, as each year passed away, 
a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted 
With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) 
And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. 

The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. 
With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb 
They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: 
On every hand a reverend band, 
Prophets and preachers and elders stand 
And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, 
Delivers a sermon to all standing by. 
(We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he 
No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) 
The sermon was marked by a deal of humility 
And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. 
That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, 
And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. 
Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat 
And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, 
Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. 
With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- 
"Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, 
The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" 
Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go". 
(That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, 
Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), 
As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins 
The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" 

The animal, freed from all restraint 
Lowered his head, made a kind of feint, 
And charged straight at that elderly saint. 
So fierce his attack and so very severe, it 
Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, 
Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. 
The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, 
A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", 
Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", 
And made a beeline back again to the camp. 
The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast 
So gallantly making his way to the east, 
Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again 
If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. 
He's hurrying, too! This never will do. 
Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. 
After all our confessions, so openly granted, 
He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. 
We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, 
If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" 

He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, 
A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. 
"Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, 
And drive back the brute to the desert again. 
The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you, 
From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- 
Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you." 
So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, 
But the goat made it clear each time he drew near 
That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. 

The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- 
"Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- 
And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, 
The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. 
The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, 
And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! 
He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" 
But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. 
('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), 
"It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be 
A good thing for someone to take up the running." 
As soon said as done, they started to run -- 
The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns 
All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, 
And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. 
And then it came out, as the rabble and rout 
Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- 
The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, 
Had been in his youth a bold metallician, 
And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, 
"Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" 
Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, 
And Abraham proved him an "even time" man, 
But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -- 
Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' 
And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. 

Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp 
Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, 
And paling and wall he plasters them all, 
"I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, 
The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills" 
"Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all 
Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; 
Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! 
Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children and all, 
For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" 
Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side 
Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! 
One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" 
And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. 
His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, 
But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. 

With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, 
The people came back from the desert in dread. 
"The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" 
In very short order they got plenty word of him. 
In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, 
"The trail of the serpent was over them all." 
A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter 
Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". 
The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, 
The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; 
He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, 
But his latest achievement most anger arouses, 
For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, 
One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed, 
Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums. 


Moral 
The moral is patent to all the beholders -- 
Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; 
Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, 
Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: 
Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, 
But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. 
Remember, no matter how far you may roam 
That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, 
Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". 
Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, 
And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, 
But, die in the wilderness! Don't you believe it!

On My First Daughter by Ben Jonson      Here lies, to each her parents' ruth,   Mary, the daughter of their youth;   Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,   It makes the father less to rue.   At six months' end, she parted hence   With safety of her innocence;   Whose soul heaven's queen, whose name she bears,   In comfort of her mother's tears,   Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:   Where, while that severed doth remain,   This grave partakes the fleshly birth;   Which cover lightly, gentle earth! 

 I

What shall I do with this absurdity -
O heart, O troubled heart - this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
 Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible -
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

 II

I pace upon the battlements and stare
On the foundations of a house, or where
Tree, like a sooty finger, starts from the earth;
And send imagination forth
Under the day's declining beam, and call
Images and memories
From ruin or from ancient trees,
For I would ask a question of them all.

Beyond that ridge lived Mrs. French, and once
When every silver candlestick or sconce
Lit up the dark mahogany and the wine.
A serving-man, that could divine
That most respected lady's every wish,
Ran and with the garden shears
Clipped an insolent farmer's ears
And brought them in a little covered dish.

Some few remembered still when I was young
A peasant girl commended by a Song,
Who'd lived somewhere upon that rocky place,
And praised the colour of her face,
And had the greater joy in praising her,
Remembering that, if walked she there,
Farmers jostled at the fair
So great a glory did the song confer.

And certain men, being maddened by those rhymes,
Or else by toasting her a score of times,
Rose from the table and declared it right
To test their fancy by their sight;
But they mistook the brightness of the moon
For the prosaic light of day -
Music had driven their wits astray -
And one was drowned in the great bog of Cloone.

Strange, but the man who made the song was blind;
Yet, now I have considered it, I find
That nothing strange; the tragedy began
With Homer that was a blind man,
And Helen has all living hearts betrayed.
O may the moon and sunlight seem
One inextricable beam,
For if I triumph I must make men mad.

And I myself created Hanrahan
And drove him drunk or sober through the dawn
From somewhere in the neighbouring cottages.
Caught by an old man's juggleries
He stumbled, tumbled, fumbled to and fro
And had but broken knees for hire
And horrible splendour of desire;
I thought it all out twenty years ago:

Good fellows shuffled cards in an old bawn;
And when that ancient ruffian's turn was on
He so bewitched the cards under his thumb
That all but the one card became
A pack of hounds and not a pack of cards,
And that he changed into a hare.
Hanrahan rose in frenzy there
And followed up those baying creatures towards -

O towards I have forgotten what - enough!
I must recall a man that neither love
Nor music nor an enemy's clipped ear
Could, he was so harried, cheer;
A figure that has grown so fabulous
There's not a neighbour left to say
When he finished his dog's day:
An ancient bankrupt master of this house.

Before that ruin came, for centuries,
Rough men-at-arms, cross-gartered to the knees
Or shod in iron, climbed the narrow stairs,
And certain men-at-arms there were
Whose images, in the Great Memory stored,
Come with loud cry and panting breast
To break upon a sleeper's rest
While their great wooden dice beat on the board.

As I would question all, come all who can;
Come old, necessitous. half-mounted man;
And bring beauty's blind rambling celebrant;
The red man the juggler sent
Through God-forsaken meadows; Mrs. French,
Gifted with so fine an ear;
The man drowned in a bog's mire,
When mocking Muses chose the country wench.

Did all old men and women, rich and poor,
Who trod upon these rocks or passed this door,
Whether in public or in secret rage
As I do now against old age?
But I have found an answer in those eyes
That are impatient to be gone;
Go therefore; but leave Hanrahan,
For I need all his mighty memories.

Old lecher with a love on every wind,
Bring up out of that deep considering mind
All that you have discovered in the grave,
For it is certain that you have
Reckoned up every unforeknown, unseeing
plunge, lured by a softening eye,
Or by a touch or a sigh,
Into the labyrinth of another's being;

Does the imagination dwell the most
Upon a woman won or woman lost?
If on the lost, admit you turned aside
From a great labyrinth out of pride,
Cowardice, some silly over-subtle thought
Or anything called conscience once;
And that if memory recur, the sun's
Under eclipse and the day blotted out.

 III

It is time that I wrote my will;
I choose upstanding men
That climb the streams until
The fountain leap, and at dawn
Drop their cast at the side
Of dripping stone; I declare
They shall inherit my pride,
The pride of people that were
Bound neither to Cause nor to State.
Neither to slaves that were spat on,
Nor to the tyrants that spat,
The people of Burke and of Grattan
That gave, though free to refuse -
pride, like that of the morn,
When the headlong light is loose,
Or that of the fabulous horn,
Or that of the sudden shower
When all streams are dry,
Or that of the hour
When the swan must fix his eye
Upon a fading gleam,
Float out upon a long
Last reach of glittering stream
And there sing his last song.
And I declare my faith:
I mock plotinus' thought
And cry in plato's teeth,
Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole,
Made lock, stock and barrel
Out of his bitter soul,
Aye, sun and moon and star, all,
And further add to that
That, being dead, we rise,
Dream and so create
Translunar paradise.
I have prepared my peace
With learned Italian things
And the proud stones of Greece,
Poet's imaginings
And memories of love,
Memories of the words of women,
All those things whereof
Man makes a superhuman,
Mirror-resembling dream.

As at the loophole there
The daws chatter and scream,
And drop twigs layer upon layer.
When they have mounted up,
The mother bird will rest
On their hollow top,
And so warm her wild nest.

I leave both faith and pride
To young upstanding men
Climbing the mountain-side,
That under bursting dawn
They may drop a fly;
Being of that metal made
Till it was broken by
This sedentary trade.

Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come -
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath -
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades;
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.

 MY lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
 No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
 My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise:
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene,
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!


November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh;
 The short’ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
 The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose:
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.


At length his lonely cot appears in view,
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
 To meet their dead, wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
 The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.


Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
 At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
 A cannie errand to a neibor town:
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu’ bloom-love sparkling in her e’e—
 Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.


With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
 And each for other’s weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet:
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
 The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.


Their master’s and their mistress’ command,
 The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
 And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play;
 “And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
 Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.”


But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor,
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
 With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.


Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
 A strappin youth, he takes the mother’s eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en;
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
 The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
 The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave,
Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.


O happy love! where love like this is found:
 O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
 And sage experience bids me this declare,—
 “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare—
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
 ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other’sarms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.”


Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
 A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
 Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
 Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o’er their child?
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?


But now the supper crowns their simple board,
 The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
The sowp their only hawkie does afford,
 That, ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
 The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell;
 And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How t’was a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.


The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
 The big ha’bible, ance his father’s pride:
 His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And “Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air.


They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise;
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
 Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:
 Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.


The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
 How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
 With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
 Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.


Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
 Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
 How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.


Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” 1
 That thus they all shall meet in future days,
 There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
 Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere


Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride,
 In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
 Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart!
 The Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
 But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.


Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
 That he who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.


From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
 That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
 “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;”
 And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
 What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!


O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
 And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
 Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.


O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide,
 That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
 (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
 O never, never Scotia’s realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!


 Note 1. Pope’s “Windsor Forest.”—R. B. [back]

IX. ? TO ALL TO WHOM I WRITE.      May none whose scatter'd names honor my book, For strict degrees of rank or title look : 'Tis 'gainst the manners of an epigram ; And I a poet here, no herald am. 

 Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith 'A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!'

Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sighed 'Which rose make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall?'
Not that, admiring stars,
It yearned 'Nor Jove, nor Mars;
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!'

Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youth's brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast:
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men;
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied
To That which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,--a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,--
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute
Whose flesh has soul to suit,
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?
To man, propose this test--
Thy body at its best,
How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:
I own the Past profuse
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
Eyes, ears took in their dole,
Brain treasured up the whole;
Should not the heart beat once 'How good to live and learn?'

Not once beat 'Praise be Thine!
I see the whole design,
I, who saw power, see now love perfect too:
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what Thou shalt do!'

For pleasant is this flesh;
Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest;
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say,
'Spite of this flesh to-day
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!'
As the bird wings and sings,
Let us cry 'All good things
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!'

Therefore I summon age
To grant youth's heritage,
Life's struggle having so far reached its term:
Thence shall I pass, approved
A man, for aye removed
From the developed brute; a god though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon
Take rest, ere I be gone
Once more on my adventure brave and new:
Fearless and unperplexed,
When I wage battle next,
What weapons to select, what armour to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try
My gain or loss thereby;
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:
And I shall weigh the same,
Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts,
A certain moment cuts
The deed off, calls the glory from the grey:
A whisper from the west
Shoots--'Add this to the rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies another day.'

So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
This rage was right i' the main,
That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.'

For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth
Should strive, through acts uncouth,
Toward making, than repose on aught found made:
So, better, age, exempt
From strife, should know, than tempt
Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!
Enough now, if the Right
And Good and Infinite
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own
With knowledge absolute,
Subject to no dispute
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all,
Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the Past!
Was I, the world arraigned,
Were they, my soul disdained,
Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten, who in ears and eyes
Match me: we all surmise,
They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass
Called 'work,' must sentence pass,
Things done, that took the eye and had the price;
O'er which, from level stand,
The low world laid its hand,
Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb,
So passed in making up the main account;
All instincts immature,
All purposes unsure,
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act,
Fancies that broke through language and escaped;
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter's wheel,
That metaphor! and feel
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,--
Thou, to whom fools propound,
When the wine makes its round,
'Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!'

Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:
What entered into thee,
That was, is, and shall be:
Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee mid this dance
Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves,
Which ran the laughing loves
Around thy base, no longer pause and press?
What though, about thy rim,
Skull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up!
To uses of a cup,
The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,
The new wine's foaming flow,
The Master's lips a-glow!
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then,
Thee, God, who mouldest men;
And since, not even while the whirl was worst,
Did I,--to the wheel of life
With shapes and colours rife,
Bound dizzily,--mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:

So, take and use Thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

 She that but little patience knew,
From childhood on, had now so much
A grey gull lost its fear and flew
Down to her cell and there alit,
And there endured her fingers' touch
And from her fingers ate its bit.

Did she in touching that lone wing
Recall the years before her mind
Became a bitter, an abstract thing,
Her thought some popular enmity:
Blind and leader of the blind
Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?

When long ago I saw her ride
Under Ben Bulben to the meet,
The beauty of her country-side
With all youth's lonely wildness stirred,
She seemed to have grown clean and sweet
Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird:

Sea-borne, or balanced on the air
When first it sprang out of the nest
Upon some lofty rock to stare
Upon the cloudy canopy,
While under its storm-beaten breast
Cried out the hollows of the sea.