10 Best Famous Consorts Poems

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

• All Famous Consorts Poems

 Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad
And all the world shall know it;
Your base behaviour shall be sung
By me, a tunefull Poet.-- 
You used to go to Harrowgate
Each summer as it came,
And why I pray should you refuse
To go this year the same?-- 

The way's as plain, the road's as smooth,
The Posting not increased;
You're scarcely stouter than you were,
Not younger Sir at least.-- 

If e'er the waters were of use
Why now their use forego?
You may not live another year,
All's mortal here below.-- 

It is your duty Mr Best
To give your health repair.
Vain else your Richard's pills will be,
And vain your Consort's care. 

But yet a nobler Duty calls
You now towards the North.
Arise ennobled--as Escort
Of Martha Lloyd stand forth. 

She wants your aid--she honours you
With a distinguished call.
Stand forth to be the friend of her
Who is the friend of all.-- 

Take her, and wonder at your luck,
In having such a Trust.
Her converse sensible and sweet
Will banish heat and dust.-- 

So short she'll make the journey seem
You'll bid the Chaise stand still.
T'will be like driving at full speed
From Newb'ry to Speen hill.-- 

Convey her safe to Morton's wife
And I'll forget the past,
And write some verses in your praise
As finely and as fast. 

But if you still refuse to go
I'll never let your rest,
Buy haunt you with reproachful song
Oh! wicked Mr. Best!--

 Pindaric Ode

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quiv'ring lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe
With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air)
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
"Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hushed the stormy main;
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— 
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit; they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

"Weave, the warp! and weave, the woof!
The winding sheet of Edward's race:
Give ample room and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year and mark the night
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty victor, mighty lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
That, hushed in grim repose, expects his ev'ning prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled Boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track that fires the western skies
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a form divine!
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attempered sweet to virgin grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of heav'n her many-coloured wings.

"The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskined measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,
Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day?
Tomorrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: with joy I see
The diff'rent doom our fates assign.
Be thine Despair and sceptred Care;
To triumph and to die are mine."
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

 NOW spent the alter'd King, in am'rous Cares, 
The Hours of sacred Hymns and solemn Pray'rs: 
In vain the Alter waits his slow returns, 
Where unattended Incense faintly burns: 
In vain the whisp'ring Priests their Fears express, 
And of the Change a thousand Causes guess. 
Heedless of all their Censures He retires, 
And in his Palace feeds his secret Fires; 
Impatient, till from Rabbah Tydings tell, 
That near those Walls the poor Uriah fell, 
Led to the Onset by a Chosen Few, 
Who at the treacherous Signal, soon withdrew; 
Nor to his Rescue e'er return'd again, 
Till by fierce Ammon's Sword they saw the Victim slain. 
'Tis pass'd, 'tis done! the holy Marriage-Knot, 
Too strong to be unty'd, at last is cut. 
And now to Bathsheba the King declares, 
That with his Heart, the Kingdom too is hers; 
That Israel's Throne, and longing Monarch's Arms 
Are to be fill'd but with her widow'd Charms. 
Nor must the Days of formal Tears exceed, 
To cross the Living, and abuse the Dead. 
This she denies; and signs of Grief are worn; 
But mourns no more than may her Face adorn, 
Give to those Eyes, which Love and Empire fir'd, 
A melting Softness more to be desir'd; 
Till the fixt Time, tho' hard to be endur'd, 
Was pass'd, and a sad Consort's Name procur'd: 
When, with the Pomp that suits a Prince's Thought, 
By Passion sway'd, and glorious Woman taught, 
A Queen she's made, than Michal seated higher, 
Whilst light unusual Airs prophane the hallow'd Lyre. 

Where art thou Nathan? where's that Spirit now, 
Giv'n to brave Vice, tho' on a Prince's Brow? 
In what low Cave, or on what Desert Coast, 
Now Virtue wants it, is thy Presence lost? 


But lo! he comes, the Rev'rend Bard appears, 
Defil'd with Dust his awful silver Hairs, 
And his rough Garment, wet with falling Tears. 
The King this mark'd, and conscious wou'd have fled, 
The healing Balm which for his Wounds was shed: 
Till the more wary Priest the Serpents Art, 
Join'd to the Dove-like Temper of his Heart, 
And thus retards the Prince just ready now to part. 


Hear me, the Cause betwixt two Neighbors hear, 
Thou, who for Justice dost the Sceptre bear: 
Help the Opprest, nor let me weep alone 
For him, that calls for Succour from the Throne. 
Good Princes for Protection are Ador'd, 
And Greater by the Shield, than by the Sword. 
This clears the Doubt, and now no more he fears 
The Cause his Own, and therefore stays and hears: 
When thus the Prophet: – 
–In a flow'ry Plain 
A King-like Man does in full Plenty reign; 
Casts round his Eyes, in vain, to reach the Bound, 
Which Jordan's Flood sets to his fertile Ground: 
Countless his Flocks, whilst Lebanon contains 
A Herd as large, kept by his numerous Swains, 
That fill with morning Bellowings the cool Air, 
And to the Cedar's shade at scorching Noon repair. 
Near to this Wood a lowly Cottage stands, 
Built by the humble Owner's painful Hands; 
Fenc'd by a Stubble-roof, from Rain and Heat, 
Secur'd without, within all Plain and Neat. 
A Field of small Extent surrounds the Place, 
In which One single Ewe did sport and graze: 
This his whole Stock, till in full time there came, 
To bless his utmost Hopes, a snowy Lamb; 
Which, lest the Season yet too Cold might prove, 
And Northern Blasts annoy it from the Grove, 
Or tow'ring Fowl on the weak Prey might sieze, 
(For with his Store his Fears must too increase) 
He brings it Home, and lays it by his Side, 
At once his Wealth, his Pleasure and his Pride; 
Still bars the Door, by Labour call'd away, 
And, when returning at the Close of Day, 
With One small Mess himself, and that sustains, 
And half his Dish it shares, and half his slender Gains. 
When to the great Man's table now there comes 
A Lord as great, follow'd by hungry Grooms: 

For these must be provided sundry Meats, 
The best for Some, for Others coarser Cates. 
One Servant, diligent above the rest 
To help his Master to contrive the Feast, 
Extols the Lamb was nourished with such Care, 
So fed, so lodg'd, it must be Princely Fare; 
And having this, my Lord his own may spare. 
In haste he sends, led by no Law, but Will, 
Not to entreat, or purchase, but to Kill. 
The Messenger's arriv'd: the harmless Spoil, 
Unus'd to fly, runs Bleating to the Toil: 
Whilst for the Innocent the Owner fear'd, 
And, sure wou'd move, cou'd Poverty be heard. 
Oh spare (he cries) the Product of my Cares, 
My Stock's Encrease, the Blessing on my Pray'rs; 
My growing Hope, and Treasure of my Life! 
More was he speaking, when the murd'ring Knife 
Shew'd him, his Suit, tho' just, must be deny'd, 
And the white Fleece in its own Scarlet dy'd; 
Whilst the poor helpless Wretch stands weeping by, 
And lifts his Hands for Justice to the Sky. 

Which he shall find, th' incensed King replies, 
When for the proud Offence th' Oppressor dies. 
O Nathan! by the Holy Name I swear, 
Our Land such Wrongs unpunished shall not bear 
If, with the Fault, th' Offender thou declare. 

To whom the Prophet, closing with the Time, 
Thou art the Man replies, and thine th' ill-natur'd Crime. 
Nor think, against thy Place, or State, I err; 
A Pow'r above thee does this Charge prefer; 
Urg'd by whose Spirit, hither am I brought 
T' expostulate his Goodness and thy Fault; 
To lead thee back to those forgotten Years, 
In Labour spent, and lowly Rustick Cares, 
When in the Wilderness thy Flocks but few, 
Thou didst the Shepherd's simple Art pursue 
Thro' crusting Frosts, and penetrating Dew: 
Till wondring Jesse saw six Brothers past, 
And Thou Elected, Thou the Least and Last; 
A Sceptre to thy Rural Hand convey'd, 
And in thy Bosom Royal Beauties laid; 
A lovely Princess made thy Prize that Day, 
When on the shaken Ground the Giant lay 
Stupid in Death, beyond the Reach of Cries 
That bore thy shouted Fame to list'ning Skies, 
And drove the flying Foe as fast away, 
As Winds, of old, Locusts to Egypt's Sea. 
Thy Heart with Love, thy Temples with Renown, 
Th' All-giving Hand of Heav'n did largely crown, 
Whilst yet thy Cheek was spread with youthful Down. 
What more cou'd craving Man of God implore? 
Or what for favour'd Man cou'd God do more? 
Yet cou'd not These, nor Israel's Throne, suffice 
Intemp'rate Wishes, drawn thro' wand'ring Eyes. 

One Beauty (not thy own) and seen by chance, 
Melts down the Work of Grace with an alluring Glance; 
Chafes the Spirit, fed by sacred Art, 
And blots the Title AFTER GOD'S OWN HEART; 
Black Murder breeds to level at his Head, 
Who boasts so fair a Part'ner of his Bed, 
Nor longer must possess those envy'd Charms, 
The single Treasure of his House, and Arms: 
Giving, by this thy Fall, cause to Blaspheme 
To all the Heathen the Almighty Name. 
For which the Sword shall still thy Race pursue, 
And, in revolted Israel's scornful View, 
Thy captiv'd Wives shall be in Triumph led 
Unto a bold Usurper's shameful Bed; 
Who from thy Bowels sprung shall seize thy Throne, 
And scourge thee by a Sin beyond thy own. 
Thou hast thy Fault in secret Darkness done; 
But this the World shall see before the Noonday's Sun. 


Enough! the King, enough! the Saint replies, 
And pours his swift Repentance from his Eyes; 
Falls on the Ground, and tears the Nuptial Vest, 
By which his Crime's Completion was exprest: 
Then with a Sigh blasting to Carnal Love, 
Drawn deep as Hell, and piercing Heaven, above 
Let Me (he cries) let Me attend his Rod, 
For I have sinn'd, for I have lost my God. 


Hold! (says the Prophet ) of that Speech beware, 
God ne'er was lost, unless by Man's Despair. 
The Wound that is thus willingly reveal'd, 
Th' Almighty is as willing should be heal'd. 
Thus wash'd in Tears, thy Soul as fair does show 
As the first Fleece, which on the Lamb does grow, 
Or on the Mountain's top the lately fallen Snow. 

Yet to the World that Justice may appear 
Acting her Part impartial, and severe, 
The Offspring of thy Sin shall soon resign 
That Life, for which thou must not once repine; 
But with submissive Grief his Fate deplore, 
And bless the Hand, that does inflict no more. 

Shall I then pay but Part, and owe the Whole? 
My Body's Fruit, for my offending Soul? 
Shall I no more endure (the King demands) 
And 'scape thus lightly his offended Hands? 
Oh! let him All resume, my Crown, my Fame; 
Reduce me to the Nothing, whence I came; 
Call back his Favours, faster than he gave; 
And, if but Pardon'd, strip me to my Grave: 


Since (tho' he seems to Lose ) He surely Wins, 
Who gives but earthly Comforts for his Sins.

 Dorinda
When Death, shall snatch us from these Kids,
And shut up our divided Lids,
Tell me Thyrsis, prethee do,
Whither thou and I must go.

Thyrsis
To the Elizium: (Dorinda) oh where i'st?

Thyrsis
A Chast Soul, can never mis't.

Dorinda
I know no way, but one, our home
Is our Elizium?

Thyrsis
Cast thine Eye to yonder Skie,
There the milky way doth lye;
'Tis a sure but rugged way,
That leads to Everlasting day.

Dorinda
There Birds may nest, but how can I,
That have no wings and cannot fly.

Thyrsis
Do not sigh (fair Nimph) for fire
Hath no wings, yet doth aspire
Till it hit, against the pole,
Heaven's the Center of the Soul.

Dorinda
But in Elizium how do they
Pass Eternity away.

Thyrsis
Ho, ther's, neither hope nor fear
Ther's no Wolf, no Fox, no Bear.
No need of Dog to fetch our stray,
Our Lightfoot we may give away;
And there most sweetly thine Ear
May feast with Musick of the Sphear.
How I my future state
By silent thinking, Antidate:
I preethe let us spend, our time come,
In talking of Elizium.

Thyrsis
Then I'le go on: There, sheep are full
Of softest grass, and softest wooll;
There, birds sing Consorts, garlands grow,
Cold winds do whisper,springs do flow.
There, alwayes is, a rising Sun,
And day is ever, but begun.
Shepheards there, bear equal sway,
And every Nimph's a Queen of May.

Dorinda
Ah me, ah me.

Thyrsis
Dorinda, why do'st Cry?

Dorinda
I'm sick, I'm sick, and fain would dye:
Convinc't me now, that this is true,
By bidding, with mee, all adieu
I cannot live, without thee, I
Will for thee,much more with thee dye.

Dorinda
Then let us give Corellia charge o'th Sheep,
And thou and I'le pick poppies and them steep
In wine, and drink on't even till we weep,
So shall we smoothly pass away in sleep.

I. You are not dead

Why do they call you 
Mohen-jo-daro,
“ Mounds-of-the-Dead”?
You are not dead!
You have never been dead
Or buried
Or cremated
By the scorching banks of the Sindhu;

Historians have conspired against you

A thousand and one tales 
Have besmirched your name
Misguided fools have imagined 
Your obituary to be true;
Sentimental fools have sung elegies
By their own graves
Garlanded their own biers,
Cursed the stars and howled at the heavens
Self-piteous tears, in the hope 
That some part of their practiced grief would be remembered
As poetry,
A fitting tribute to your eternal face;
Maybe, they would be able to, by their ululations,
Raise demons from the earth
Or bring forth spectres
From darkest shadows of the thinnest air, precipitating
Some prophecy, nameless and foreboding, a small
Tin medal on their pathetic breasts,
Stark in their hunger for inspired flights;

Other dust should fashion other jars, not having the consistency 
Of ours.
It has been foretold that you will not die
That you will not die thus, at the behest of historians
Or for the research of archaeologists
Or even the yapping lap-dogs
Aping the tawny shades of our leonine skins;
It has been foretold,
And we are witnesses to you survival.



II. Priest-Kings and dancing girls

The sands have shifted,
As the river has---
You are only abandoned,
“Mound-abandoned-and-shifted”.
Take heart! Be not sad,
The sons of Sindhu are around you;
You cannot die while your sons live,
While the children of the river still ply their wide boats 
On your consort’s undulating breast;
While your daughters carry their vessels
Fashioned from your clay;

In every face, you are alive.
In the mien of priest-kings who have renounced
Their crowns and pulpits for lives of love and freedom—
At Bhit Shah, they sing your songs;
At Sehwan, they celebrate your being;
In every prayer and call to prayer you are revealed
Rising gradually towards the heights of Kirthar
Rolling ceaselessly over the sands of Kutch
With every partridge crooning in the cotton, 
With every mallard winging over Manchar,
You come forth—
The Breaker-of-the-Shackles-of-Tyranny
The-Keeper-of-the-Honour-of-Dancing –girls
Friend-of-the-Imprisoned-Hari
Last-Flower-amidst-the-Thorns-of-Despair!
You are the yellow turmeric staining the red ajrak
Of our wounds
Anointing your martyrs
Healing your casualties
Soothing us with your whispered lullaby
Such as our mothers used to sing us 
In our cradles
From the earliest dawn of creation;

Even now, your humped oxen plod home in the evening 
Of their tillage;
Every day I hear the rise and fall of your undeciphered script
In the cadences of children
In the chattering of women
In the murmur of lovers
In the gestures of old men
In the anger of the young.



III. A Dream Untold

It was said, long ago, that you will not die
That forever you will live in the eyes of every child,
That you will rise from your gargantuan sleep,
Arise, woken by the winds!
When the Eastern Gates of your citadel are opened wide
All wars will cease
Your sons will no longer flinch under the lash,
Your daughters will no longer be distraught,
The pillars of fire and smoke will settle down
And the silent waste-lands speak with voices of prophecy;

When precious stones will once again etch the bright circumference
Of your ruins
And the heavens shake themselves into fleeting shapes,
Vain and irresolute constellations plunge
Into narrow circles of despair—

It has been said that you will flourish again,
When the crashing shores 
Of sea and river
Melt into each other
When waves shiver
Into the rock’s embrace.

Then I, too, shall awaken, I trust, 
And behold you in your truth.

------------



* (c) Omer Tarin. Pub ''The Glasgow Seeker'', UK, 2005 

 King Solomon drew merchantmen,
 Because of his desire
 For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
 From Tarshish unto Tyre,
 With cedars out of Lebanon
 Which Hiram rafted down;
 But we be only sailormen
 That use in London town.

Coastwise -- cross-seas -- round the world and back again --
 Where the paw shall head us or the full Trade suits --
Plain-sail -- storm-sail -- lay your board and tack again --
 And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!

 We bring no store of ingots,
 Of spice or precious stones,
 But what we have we gathered
 With sweat and aching bones:
 In flame beneath the Tropics,
 In frost upon the floe,
 And jeopardy of every wind
 That does between them go.

 And some we got by purchase,
 And some we had by trade,
 And some we found by courtesy
 Of pike and carronade --
 At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings,
 For charity to keep,
 And light the rolling homeward-bound
 That rowed a foot too deep!

 By sport of bitter weather
 We're walty, strained, and scarred
 From the kentledge on the kelson
 To the slings upon the yard.
 Six oceans had their will of us
 To carry all away --
 Our galley's in the Baltic,
 And our boom's in Mossel Bay.

 We've floundered off the Texel,
 Awash with sodden deals,
 We've shipped from Valparaiso
 With the Norther at our heels:
 We're ratched beyond the Crossets
 That tusk the Southern Pole,
 And dipped our gunnels under
 To the dread Agulhas roll.

 Beyond all outer charting
 We sailed where none have sailed,
 And saw the land-lights burning
 On islands none have hailed;
 Our hair stood up for wonder,
 But, when the night was done,
 There danced the deep to windward
 Blue-empty'neath the sun!

 Strange consorts rode beside us
 And brought us evil luck;
 The witch-fire climbed our channels,
 And flared on vane and truck,
 Till, through the red tornado,
 That lashed us nigh to blind,
 We saw The Dutchman plunging,
 Full canvas, head to wind!

 We've heard the Midnight Leadsman
 That calls the black deep down --
 Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer,
 The Thing that may not drown.
 On frozen bunt and gasket
 The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
 When, manned by more than signed with us
 We passed the Isle of Ghosts! 

 And north, amid the hummocks,
 A biscuit-toss below,
 We met the silent shallop
 That frighted whalers know;
 For, down a cruel ice-lane,
 That opened as he sped,
 We saw dead Hendrick Hudson
 Steer, North by West, his dead.

 So dealt God's waters with us
 Beneath the roaring skies,
 So walked His signs and marrvels
 All naked to our eyes:
 But we were heading homeward
 With trade to lose or make --
 Good Lord, they slipped behind us
 In the tailing of our wake!

 Let go, let go the anchors;
 Now shamed at heart are we
 To bring so poor a cargo home
 That had for gift the sea!
 Let go the great bow-anchor --
 Ah, fools were we and blind --
 The worst we stored with utter toil,
 The best we left behind!

Coastwise -- cross-seas -- round the world and back again,
 Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:
Plain-sail -- storm-sail -- lay your board and tack again --
 And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!

 The strength of twice three thousand horse
 That seeks the single goal;
The line that holds the rending course,
 The hate that swings the whole;
The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom,
 At gaze and gone again --
The Brides of Death that wait the groom --
 The Choosers of the Slain!

Offshore where sea and skyline blend
 In rain, the daylight dies;
The sullen, shouldering sweels attend
 Night and our sacrifice.
Adown the stricken capes no flare --
 No mark on spit or bar, --
Birdled and desperate we dare
 The blindfold game of war.

Nearer the up-flung beams that spell
 The council of our foes;
Clearer the barking guns that tell
 Their scattered flank to close.
Sheer to the trap they crowd their way
 From ports for this unbarred.
Quiet, and count our laden prey,
 The convoy and her guard!

On shoal with carce a foot below,
 Where rock and islet throng,
Hidden and hushed we watch them throw
 Their anxious lights along.
Not here, not here your danger lies --
 (Stare hard, O hooded eyne!)
Save were the dazed rock-pigeons rise
 The lit cliffs give no sign.

Therefore -- to break the rest ye seek,
 The Narrow Seas to clear --
Hark to the siren's whimpering shriek --
 The driven death is here!
Look to your van a league away, --
 What midnight terror stays
The bulk that checks against the spray
 Her crackling tops ablaze?

Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home,
 The muffled, knocking stroke --
The steam that overruns the foam --
 The foam that thins to smoke --
The smoke that clokes the deep aboil --
 The deep that chokes her throes
Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,
 The lukewarm whirlpools close!

A shadow down the sickened wave
 Long since her slayer fled:
But hear their chattering quick-fires rave
 Astern, abeam, ahead!
Panic that shells the drifting spar --
 Loud waste with none to check --
Mad fear that rakes a scornful star
 Or sweeps a consort's deck.

Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick,
 Now ere their wits they find,
Lay in and lance them to the quick --
 Our gallied whales are blind!
Good luck to those that see end end,
 Good-bye to those that drown --
For each his chance as chance shall send --
 And God for all! Shut down!

The strength of twice three thousand horse
 That serve the one command;
The hand that heaves the headlong force,
 The hate that backs the hand:
The doom-bolt in the darkness freed,
 The mine that splits the main;
The white-hot wake, the 'wildering speed --
 The Choosers of the Slain!

 Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees;
Our loins are battered 'neath us by the swinging, smoking seas.
From reef and rock and skerry -- over headland, ness, and voe --
The Coastwise Lights of England watch the ships of England go!

Through the endless summer evenings, on the lineless, level floors;
Through the yelling Channel tempest when the siren hoots and roars --
By day the dipping house-flag and by night the rocket's trail --
As the sheep that graze behind us so we know them where they hail.

We bridge across the dark and bid the helmsman have a care,
The flash that wheeling 
 That use in London Town.

Coastwise -- cross-seas -- round the world and back again --
 Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits --
Plain-sail -- storm-sail -- lay your board and tack again --
 And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!

We bring no store of ingots,
 Of spice or precious stones,
But that we have we gathered
 With sweat and aching bones:
In flame beneath the tropics,
 In frost upon the floe,
And jeopardy of every wind
 That does between them go.

And some we got by purchase,
 And some we had by trade,
And some we found by courtesy
 Of pike and carronade --
At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings,
 For charity to keep,
And light the rolling homeward-bound
 That rode a foot too deep.

By sport of bitter weather
 We're walty, strained, and scarred
From the kentledge on the kelson
 To the slings upon the yard.
Six oceans had their will of us
 To carry all away --
Our galley's in the Baltic,
 And our boom's in Mossel Bay!

We've floundered off the Texel,
 Awash with sodden deals,
We've slipped from Valparaiso
 With the Norther at our heels:
We've ratched beyond the Crossets
 That tusk the Southern Pole,
And dipped our gunnels under
 To the dread Agulhas roll.

Beyond all outer charting
 We sailed where none have sailed,
And saw the land-lights burning
 On islands none have hailed;
Our hair stood up for wonder,
 But, when the night was done,
There danced the deep to windward
 Blue-empty 'neath the sun!

Strange consorts rode beside us
 And brought us evil luck;
The witch-fire climbed our channels,
 And flared on vane and truck:
Till, through the red tornado,
 That lashed us nigh to blind,
We saw The Dutchman plunging,
 Full canvas, head to wind!

We've heard the Midnight Leadsman
 That calls the black deep down --
Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer,
 The Thing that may not drown.
On frozen bunt and gasket
 The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
When, manned by more than signed with us,
 We passed the Isle o' Ghosts!

And north, amid the hummocks,
 A biscuit-toss below,
We met the silent shallop
 That frighted whalers know;
For, down a cruel ice-lane,
 That opened as he sped,
We saw dead Henry Hudson
 Steer, North by West, his dead.

So dealt God's waters with us
 Beneath the roaring skies,
So walked His signs and marvels
 All naked to our eyes:
But we were heading homeward
 With trade to lose or make --
Good Lord, they slipped behind us
 In the tailing of our wake!

Let go, let go the anchors;
 Now shamed at heart are we
To bring so poor a cargo home
 That had for gift the sea!
Let go the great bow-anchors --
 Ah, fools were we and blind --
The worst we stored with utter toil,
 The best we left behind!

Coastwise -- cross-seas -- round the world and back again,
 Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:
Plain-sail -- storm-sail -- lay your board and tack again --
 And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!

 WEAVE the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heav'n. What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

Mighty Victor, mighty Lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)