10 Best Famous Contrite Poems

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

• All Famous Contrite Poems

1897


God of our fathers, known of old,
   Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
   Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
   The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
   An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
   On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
   Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
   Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
   Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
   In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
   And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

 To the Priest, on Observing how most Men mistake their own Talents
When beasts could speak (the learned say, 
They still can do so ev'ry day),
It seems, they had religion then,
As much as now we find in men.
It happen'd, when a plague broke out
(Which therefore made them more devout),
The king of brutes (to make it plain,
Of quadrupeds I only mean)
By proclamation gave command,
That ev'ry subject in the land
Should to the priest confess their sins;
And thus the pious wolf begins:

"Good father, I must own with shame,
That often I have been to blame:
I must confess, on Friday last,
Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:
But I defy the basest tongue
To prove I did my neighbour wrong;
Or ever went to seek my food
By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood."

The ass, approaching next, confess'd
That in his heart he lov'd a jest:
A wag he was, he needs must own,
And could not let a dunce alone:
Sometimes his friend he would not spare,
And might perhaps be too severe:
But yet, the worst that could be said,
He was a wit both born and bred;
And, if it be a sin or shame,
Nature alone must bear the blame:
One fault he hath, is sorry for't,
His ears are half a foot too short;
Which could he to the standard bring,
He'd show his face before the King:
Then for his voice, there's none disputes
That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The swine with contrite heart allow'd,
His shape and beauty made him proud:
In diet was perhaps too nice,
But gluttony was ne'er his vice:
In ev'ry turn of life content,
And meekly took what fortune sent:
Inquire through all the parish round,
A better neighbour ne'er was found:
His vigilance might some displease;
'Tis true he hated sloth like peas.

The mimic ape began his chatter,
How evil tongues his life bespatter:
Much of the cens'ring world complain'd,
Who said, his gravity was feign'd:
Indeed, the strictness of his morals
Engag'd him in a hundred quarrels:
He saw, and he was griev'd to see't,
His zeal was sometimes indiscreet:
He found his virtues too severe
For our corrupted times to bear:
Yet, such a lewd licentious age
Might well excuse a Stoic's rage.

The goat advanc'd with decent pace;
And first excus'd his youthful face;
Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd
('Twas nature's fault) without a beard.
'Tis true, he was not much inclin'd
To fondness for the female kind;
Not, as his enemies object,
From chance, or natural defect;
Not by his frigid constitution,
But through a pious resolution;
For he had made a holy vow
Of chastity as monks do now;
Which he resolv'd to keep for ever hence,
As strictly too, as doth his Reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find,
How just it suits with human kind.
Some faults we own: but, can you guess?
Why?--virtues carried to excess,
Wherewith our vanity endows us,
Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The lawyer swears, you may rely on't,
He never squeez'd a needy client;
And this he makes his constant rule,
For which his brethren call him fool:
His conscience always was so nice,
He freely gave the poor advice;
By which he lost, he may affirm,
A hundred fees last Easter term.
While others of the learned robe
Would break the patience of a Job;
No pleader at the bar could match
His diligence and quick dispatch;
Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast,
Above a term or two at most.

The cringing knave, who seeks a place
Without success, thus tells his case:
Why should he longer mince the matter?
He fail'd because he could not flatter;
He had not learn'd to turn his coat,
Nor for a party give his vote:
His crime he quickly understood;
Too zealous for the nation's good:
He found the ministers resent it,
Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The chaplain vows he cannot fawn,
Though it would raise him to the lawn:
He pass'd his hours among his books;
You find it in his meagre looks:
He might, if he were worldly wise,
Preferment get and spare his eyes:
But own'd he had a stubborn spirit,
That made him trust alone in merit:
Would rise by merit to promotion;
Alas! a mere chimeric notion.

The doctor, if you will believe him,
Confess'd a sin; and God forgive him!
Call'd up at midnight, ran to save
A blind old beggar from the grave:
But see how Satan spreads his snares;
He quite forgot to say his prayers.
He cannot help it for his heart
Sometimes to act the parson's part:
Quotes from the Bible many a sentence,
That moves his patients to repentance:
And, when his med'cines do no good,
Supports their minds with heav'nly food,
At which, however well intended,
He hears the clergy are offended;
And grown so bold behind his back,
To call him hypocrite and quack.
In his own church he keeps a seat;
Says grace before and after meat;
And calls, without affecting airs,
His household twice a day to prayers.
He shuns apothecaries' shops;
And hates to cram the sick with slops:
He scorns to make his art a trade;
Nor bribes my lady's fav'rite maid.
Old nurse-keepers would never hire
To recommend him to the squire;
Which others, whom he will not name,
Have often practis'd to their shame.

The statesman tells you with a sneer,
His fault is to be too sincere;
And, having no sinister ends,
Is apt to disoblige his friends.
The nation's good, his master's glory,
Without regard to Whig or Tory,
Were all the schemes he had in view;
Yet he was seconded by few:
Though some had spread a hundred lies,
'Twas he defeated the Excise.
'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion,
That standing troops were his aversion:
His practice was, in ev'ry station,
To serve the King, and please the nation.
Though hard to find in ev'ry case
The fittest man to fill a place:
His promises he ne'er forgot,
But took memorials on the spot:
His enemies, for want of charity,
Said he affected popularity:
'Tis true, the people understood,
That all he did was for their good;
Their kind affections he has tried;
No love is lost on either side.
He came to Court with fortune clear,
Which now he runs out ev'ry year:
Must, at the rate that he goes on,
Inevitably be undone:
Oh! if his Majesty would please
To give him but a writ of ease,
Would grant him licence to retire,
As it hath long been his desire,
By fair accounts it would be found,
He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
He owns, and hopes it is no sin,
He ne'er was partial to his kin;
He thought it base for men in stations
To crowd the Court with their relations;
His country was his dearest mother,
And ev'ry virtuous man his brother;
Through modesty or awkward shame
(For which he owns himself to blame),
He found the wisest man he could,
Without respect to friends or blood;
Nor ever acts on private views,
When he hath liberty to choose.

The sharper swore he hated play,
Except to pass an hour away:
And well he might; for, to his cost,
By want of skill he always lost;
He heard there was a club of cheats,
Who had contriv'd a thousand feats;
Could change the stock, or cog a die,
And thus deceive the sharpest eye:
Nor wonder how his fortune sunk,
His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.

I own the moral not exact;
Besides, the tale is false in fact;
And so absurd, that could I raise up
From fields Elysian fabling Aesop;
I would accuse him to his face
For libelling the four-foot race.
Creatures of ev'ry kind but ours
Well comprehend their natural pow'rs;
While we, whom reason ought to sway,
Mistake our talents ev'ry day.
The ass was never known so stupid
To act the part of Tray or Cupid;
Nor leaps upon his master's lap,
There to be strok'd, and fed with pap,
As Aesop would the world persuade;
He better understands his trade:
Nor comes, whene'er his lady whistles;
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.
Our author's meaning, I presume, is
A creature bipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralist design'd
A compliment on human kind:
For here he owns, that now and then
Beasts may degenerate into men.

 My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
For if they found I'd fouled their name
And was not white as snow,
I'm sure that they would die of shame . . .
Please, God, they'll never know.

I clean the paint from off my face,
In sober black I dress;
Of coquetry I leave no trace
To give them vague distress;
And though it causes me a pang
To play such sorry tricks,
About my neck I meekly hang
A silver crufix.

And so with humble step I go
Just like a child again,
To greet their Christmas candle-glow,
A soul without a stain;
So well I play my contrite part
I make myself believe
There's not a stain within my heart
On Holy Christmas Eve.

With double natures we are vext,
And what we feel, we are;
A saint one day, a sinner next,
A red light or a star;
A prostitute or proselyte,
And in each part sincere:
So I become a vestal white
One week in every year.

For this I say without demur
From out life's lurid lore,
Each righteous women has in her
A tincture of the whore;
While every harpy of the night,
As I have learned too well;
Holds in her heart a heaven-light
To ransom her from hell.

So I'll go home and sweep and dust;
I'll make the kitchen fire,
And be a model of daughters just
The best they could desire;
I'll fondle them and cook their food,
And Mother dear will say:
"Thank God! my darling is as good
As when she went away."

But after New Year's Day I'll fill
My bag and though they grieve,
I'll bid them both good-bye until
Another Christmas Eve;
And then . . . a knock upon the door:
I'll find them waiting there,
And angel-like I'll come once more
In answer to their prayer.

Then Lo! one night when candle-light
Gleams mystic on the snow,
And music swells of Christmas bells,
I'll come, no more to go:
The old folks need my love and care,
Their gold shall gild my dross,
And evermore my breast shall bear
My little silver cross.

 Farewell, lov'd Youth! since 'twas the Will of Heaven 
So soon to take, what had so late been giv'n; 
And thus our Expectations to destroy, 
Raising a Grief, where we had form'd a Joy; 
Who once believ'd, it was the Fates Design 
In Him to double an Illustrious Line, 
And in a second Channel spread that Race 
Where ev'ry Virtue shines, with every Grace. 
But we mistook, and 'twas not here below 
That this engrafted Scion was to grow; 
The Seats above requir'd him, that each Sphere 
Might soon the Offspring of such Parents share.
Resign him then to the supream Intent, 
You, who but Flesh to that blest Spirit lent. 
Again disrob'd, let him to Bliss retire, 
And only bear from you, amidst that Choir, 
What, Precept or Example did inspire, 
A Title to Rewards, from that rich store 
Of Pious Works, which you have sent before. 
Then lay the fading Reliques, which remain, 
In the still Vault (excluding farther Pain); 
Where Kings and Counsellors their Progress close, 
And his renowned Ancestors repose; 
Where COVENTRY withdrew All but in Name, 
Leaving the World his Benefits and Fame; 
Where his Paternal Predecessor lies, 
Once large of Thought, and rank'd among the Wise; 
Whose Genius in Long-Leat we may behold 
(A Pile, as noble as if he'd been told 
By WEYMOUTH, it shou'd be in time possest, 
And strove to suit the Mansion to the Guest.) 
Nor favour'd, nor disgrac'd, there ESSEX sleeps, 
Nor SOMERSET his Master's Sorrows weeps, 
Who to the shelter of th' unenvy'd Grave 
Convey'd the Monarch, whom he cou'd not save; 
Though, Roman-like, his own less-valu'd Head 
He proffer'd in that injur'd Martyr's stead. 
Nor let that matchless Female 'scape my Pen, 
Who their Whole Duty taught to weaker Men, 
And of each Sex the Two best Gifts enjoy'd, 
The Skill to write, the Modesty to hide; 
Whilst none shou'd that Performance disbelieve, 
Who led the Life, might the Directions give. 
With such as These, whence He deriv'd his Blood, 
Great on Record, or eminently Good, 
Let Him be laid, till Death's long Night shall cease, 
And breaking Glory interrupt the Peace. 
Mean-while, ye living Parents, ease your Grief 
By Tears, allow'd as Nature's due Relief. 
For when we offer to the Pow'rs above, 
Like You, the dearest Objects of our Love; 
When, with that patient Saint in Holy Writ, 
We've learnt at once to Grieve, and to Submit; 
When contrite Sighs, like hallow'd Incense, rise 
Bearing our Anguish to th' appeased Skies; 
Then may those Show'rs, which take from Sorrow birth, 
And still are tending tow'rd this baleful Earth, 
O'er all our deep and parching Cares diffuse, 
Like Eden's Springs, or Hermon's soft'ning Dews. 

But lend your Succours, ye Almighty Pow'rs, 
For as the Wound, the Balsam too is Yours. 
In vain are Numbers, or persuasive Speech, 
What Poets write, or what the Pastors teach, 
Till You, who make, again repair the Breach. 
For when to Shades of Death our Joys are fled, 
When for a Loss, like This, our Tears are shed, 
None can revive the Heart, but who can raise the Dead. 
But yet, my Muse, if thou hadst softer Verse 
Than e'er bewail'd the melancholy Herse; 
If thou hadst Pow'r to dissipate the Gloom 
Inherent to the Solitary Tomb; 
To rescue thence the Memory and Air 
Of what we lately saw so Fresh, so Fair; 
Then shou'd this Noble Youth thy Art engage 
To shew the Beauties of his blooming Age, 
The pleasing Light, that from his Eyes was cast, 
Like hasty Beams, too Vigorous to last; 
Where the warm Soul, as on the Confines, lay 
Ready for Flight, and for Eternal Day. 
Gently dispos'd his Nature shou'd be shown, 
And all the Mother's Sweetness made his Own. 
The Father's Likeness was but faintly seen, 
As ripen'd Fruits are figur'd by the Green. 
Nor cou'd we hope, had he fulfill'd his Days, 
He shou'd have reach'd WEYMOUTH's unequal'd Praise. 
Still One distinguish'd plant each Lineage shews, 
And all the rest beneath it's Stature grows. 
Of Tully's Race but He possess'd the Tongue, 
And none like Julius from the Caesars sprung. 
Next, in his harmless Sports he shou'd be drawn 
Urging his Courser, o'er the flow'ry Lawn; 
Sprightly Himself, as the enliven'd Game, 
Bold in the Chace, and full of gen'rous Flame; 
Yet in the Palace, Tractable and Mild, 
Perfect in all the Duties of a Child; 
Which fond Reflection pleases, whilst it pains, 
Like penetrating Notes of sad Harmonious Strains. 
Selected Friendships timely he began, 
And siezed in Youth that best Delight of Man, 
Leaving a growing Race to mourn his End, 
Their earliest and their Ages promis'd Friend. 
But far away alas! that Prospect moves, 
Lost in the Clouds, like distant Hills and Groves, 
Whilst with encreasing Steps we all pursue 
What Time alone can bring to nearer View, 
That Future State, which Darkness yet involves, 
Known but by Death, which ev'ry Doubt resolves.

CANZONE XIX.
 
S' il dissi mai, ch' i' venga in odio a quella.
 
HE VEHEMENTLY REBUTS THE CHARGE OF LOVING ANOTHER.
 
 
Perdie! I said it not,Nor never thought to do:As well as I, ye wotI have no power thereto.And if I did, the lotThat first did me enchainMay never slake the knot,But strait it to my pain.
 
And if I did, each thingThat may do harm or woe,[Pg 184]Continually may wringMy heart, where so I go!Report may always ringOf shame on me for aye,If in my heart did springThe words that you do say.
 
And if I did, each starThat is in heaven above,May frown on me, to marThe hope I have in love!And if I did, such warAs they brought unto Troy,Bring all my life afarFrom all his lust and joy!
 
And if I did so say,The beauty that me boundIncrease from day to day,More cruel to my wound!With all the moan that mayTo plaint may turn my song;My life may soon decay,Without redress, by wrong!
 
If I be clear from thought,Why do you then complain?Then is this thing but soughtTo turn my heart to pain.Then this that you have wrought,You must it now redress;Of right, therefore, you oughtSuch rigour to repress.
 
And as I have deserved,So grant me now my hire;You know I never swerved,You never found me liar.For Rachel have I served,For Leah cared I never;And her I have reservedWithin my heart for ever.
 
Wyatt. 
 
[Pg 185] If I said so, may I be hated byHer on whose love I live, without which I should die—If I said so, my days be sad and short,May my false soul some vile dominion court.If I said so, may every star to meBe hostile; round me growPale fear and jealousy;And she, my foe,As cruel still and cold as fair she aye must be.
 
If I said so, may Love upon my heartExpend his golden shafts, on her the leaden dart;Be heaven and earth, and God and man my foe,And she still more severe if I said so:If I said so, may he whose blind lights leadMe straightway to my grave,Trample yet worse his slave,Nor she behaveGentle and kind to me in look, or word, or deed.
 
If I said so, then through my brief life mayAll that is hateful block my worthless weary way:If I said so, may the proud frost in theeGrow prouder as more fierce the fire in me:If I said so, no more then may the warmSun or bright moon be view'd,Nor maid, nor matron's form,But one dread stormSuch as proud Pharaoh saw when Israel he pursued.
 
If I said so, despite each contrite sigh,Let courtesy for me and kindly feeling die:If I said so, that voice to anger swell,Which was so sweet when first her slave I fell:If I said so, I should offend whom I,E'en from my earliest breathUntil my day of death,Would gladly take,Alone in cloister'd cell my single saint to make.
 
But if I said not so, may she who first,In life's green youth, my heart to hope so sweetly nursed,Deign yet once more my weary bark to guideWith native kindness o'er the troublous tide;[Pg 186]And graceful, grateful, as her wont before,When, for I could no more,My all, myself I gave,To be her slave,Forget not the deep faith with which I still adore.
 
I did not, could not, never would say so,For all that gold can give, cities or courts bestow:Let truth, then, take her old proud seat on high,And low on earth let baffled falsehood lie.Thou know'st me, Love! if aught my state withinBelief or care may win,Tell her that I would callHim blest o'er allWho, doom'd like me to pine, dies ere his strife begin.
 
Rachel I sought, not Leah, to secure,Nor could I this vain life with other fair endure,And, should from earth Heaven summon her again,Myself would gladly dieFor her, or with her, whenElijah's fiery car her pure soul wafts on high.
 
Macgregor.

 Upon Bottle Miche the autre day
While yet the nuit was early,
Je met a homme whose barbe was grey,
Whose cheveaux long and curly.

“Je am a poete, sir,” dit he,
“Je live where tres grande want teems—
I’m faim, sir. Sil vous plait give me
Un franc or cinquatite centimes.”

I donne him vingt big copper sous
But dit, “You moderne rhymers
The sacre poet name abuse—
Les poets were old timers.”

“Je know! I know!” he wept, contrite;
“The bards no more suis mighty:
Ils rise no more in eleve flight,
Though some are beaucoup flighty.

“Vous wonder why Je weep this way,
Pour quoi these tears and blubbers?
It is mon fault les bards today
Helas! suis mere earth-grubbers.

“There was a time when tout might see
My grande flights dans the saddle;
Crowned rois, indeed, applauded me
Le Pegasus astraddle.

“Le winged horse avec acclaim
Was voted mon possession;
Je rode him tous les jours to fame;
Je led the whole procession.

“Then arrivee the Prussian war—
The siege—the sacre famine—
Then some had but a crust encore,
We mange the last least ham-an’

“Helas! Mon noble winged steed
Went oft avec no dinner;
On epics il refusee feed
And maigre grew, and thinner!

“Tout food was gone, and dans the street
Each homme sought crusts to sate him—
Joyeux were those with horse’s meat,
And Pegasus! Je ate him!”

My anger then Je could not hide—
To parler scarcely able
“Oh! curses dans you, sir!” Je cried;
“Vous human livery stable!”

He fled! But vous who read this know
Why mon pauvre verse is beaten
By that of cinquante years ago
‘Vant Pegasus fut eaten!

 God of our fathers, known of old --
 Lord of our far-flung battle line --
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
 Dominion over palm and pine --
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget -- lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies --
 The Captains and the Kings depart --
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
 An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget -- lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away --
 On dune and headland sinks the fire --
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
 Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget -- lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
 Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe --
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
 Or lesser breeds without the Law --
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget -- lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
 In reeking tube and iron shard --
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
 And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
 Amen.

 Well, eight months ago one clear cold day,
I took a ramble up Broadway,
And with my hands behind my back
I strolled along on the streetcar track—
(I walked on the track, for walking there
Gives one, I think, a distinguished air.)

“Well, all of a sudden I felt a jar
And I said, “I’ll bet that’s a trolley car,”
And, sure enough, when I looked to see
I saw it had run right over me!
And my limbs and things were so scattered about
That for a moment I felt put out.

Well, the motorman was a nice young chap!
And he came right up and tipped his cap
And said, “Beg pardon,” and was so kind
That his gentle manner soothed my mind:
Especially as he took such pains
To gather up my spilt remains.

Well, he found my arms and found my head,
And then, in a contrite voice, he said,
“Say, mister, I guess I’ll have to beg Your pardon,
I can’t find your left leg,”
And he would have wept, but I said,
“No! no! It doesn’t matter, just let it go.”

Well, I went on home and on the way
I considered what my wife would say:
I knew she would have some sharp reply
If I let her know I was one leg shy,
So I thought, on the whole, ’twould be just as well
For my peace of mind if I didn’t tell.

Well, that was the first thing in my life
That I kept a secret from my wife.
And for eight long months I was in distress
To think that I didn’t dare confess,
And I’d probably still feel just that way
If it hadn’t come ’round to Christmas Day.

Well, in good old customs I still believe,
So I hung up my stocking Christmas Eve;
(A brand-new left one I’d never worn.)
And when I looked in it Christmas morn
There was my leg, as large as life,
With a ticket on it, “From your wife.”

Well, my wife had had it stored away
In cotton, since last Easter Day,
When she ran across it, quite by chance,
In the left hip-pocket of my pants;
And the only reproachful thing she said
Was, “Look out or some day you’ll lose your head.”

SONNET CXL.
 
Mirando 'l sol de' begli occhi sereno.
 
THE SWEETS AND BITTERS OF LOVE.
 
 
Marking of those bright eyes the sun sereneWhere reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves,My hopeless heart the weary spirit leavesOnce more to gain its paradise terrene;Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene,And in the world how vast the web it weaves.A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves,Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been.By these two contrary and mix'd extremes,With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught,To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems:Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought,But mostly contrite for its bold emprize,For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!
 
Macgregor.

 (Isaiah, lvii.15)

The Lord will happiness divine
On contrite hearts bestow;
Then tell me, gracious God, is mine
A contrite heart or no?

I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain,
To find I cannot feel.

I sometimes think myself inclined
To love Thee if I could;
But often feel another mind,
Averse to all that's good.

My best desires are faint and few,
I fain would strive for more;
But when I cry, "My strength renew!"
Seem weaker than before.

Thy saints are comforted, I know,
And love Thy house of prayer;
I therefore go where others go,
But find no comfort there.

Oh make this heart rejoice or ache;
Decide this doubt for me;
And if it be not broken, break --
And heal it, if it be.