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Best Famous Disrobed Poems

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Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Create an image from this poem

The Princess (The Conclusion)

 So closed our tale, of which I give you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it rose: 
The words are mostly mine; for when we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 
'I wish she had not yielded!' then to me, 
'What, if you drest it up poetically?' 
So prayed the men, the women: I gave assent: 
Yet how to bind the scattered scheme of seven 
Together in one sheaf? What style could suit? 
The men required that I should give throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we bantered little Lilia first: 
The women--and perhaps they felt their power, 
For something in the ballads which they sang, 
Or in their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seemed to wrestle with burlesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close-- 
They hated banter, wished for something real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess--why 
Not make her true-heroic--true-sublime? 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the close? 
Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists: 
And I, betwixt them both, to please them both, 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal, 
And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute: the sequel of the tale 
Had touched her; and she sat, she plucked the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking: last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
'You--tell us what we are' who might have told, 
For she was crammed with theories out of books, 
But that there rose a shout: the gates were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these: we climbed 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of peace; 
Gray halls alone among their massive groves; 
Trim hamlets; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream; the seas; 
A red sail, or a white; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France. 

'Look there, a garden!' said my college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, 'and there! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled-- 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, 
Some patient force to change them when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd-- 
But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight, 
The little boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring out; 
Too comic for the serious things they are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them, 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 
As some of theirs--God bless the narrow seas! 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad.' 

'Have patience,' I replied, 'ourselves are full 
Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth: 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time 
To learn its limbs: there is a hand that guides.' 

In such discourse we gained the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-hoaks, 
Among six boys, head under head, and looked 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shouldered genial Englishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none; 
Fair-haired and redder than a windy morn; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those 
That stood the nearest--now addressed to speech-- 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year 
To follow: a shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer 
From slope to slope through distant ferns, and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king! Why should not these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a year 
To let the people breathe? So thrice they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they streamed away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness charmed: we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, 
Perchance upon the future man: the walls 
Blackened about us, bats wheeled, and owls whooped, 
And gradually the powers of the night, 
That range above the region of the wind, 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up 
Through all the silent spaces of the worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well-pleased we went.


Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem

Canzone XVI

[Pg 124]

CANZONE XVI.

Italia mia, benchè 'l parlar sia indarno.

TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.

O my own Italy! though words are vainThe mortal wounds to close,Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain,Yet may it soothe my painTo sigh forth Tyber's woes,And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shoreSorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying loveThat could thy Godhead moveTo dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:See, God of Charity!From what light cause this cruel war has birth;And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd,Thou, Father! from on high,Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!
Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confideOf this fair land the reins,—(This land for which no pity wrings your breast)—Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?That her green fields be dyed,Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins?Beguiled by error weak,Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek:When throng'd your standards most,Ye are encompass'd most by hostile bands.O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands,That rushing down amainO'erwhelms our every native lovely plain!Alas! if our own handsHave thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain?
Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,Rear her rude Alpine heights,A lofty rampart against German hate;But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,[Pg 125]With ever restless will,To the pure gales contagion foul invites:Within the same strait foldThe gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:And these,—oh, shame avow'd!—Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold:Fame tells how Marius' swordErewhile their bosoms gored,—Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud!When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood,With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood!
Great Cæsar's name I pass, who o'er our plainsPour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide,Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins;But now—nor know I what ill stars preside—Heaven holds this land in hate!To you the thanks!—whose hands control her helm!—You, whose rash feuds despoilOf all the beauteous earth the fairest realm!Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate,To oppress the desolate?From broken fortunes, and from humble toil,The hard-earn'd dole to wring,While from afar ye bringDealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?In truth's great cause I sing.Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.
Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof,Bavaria's perfidy,Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!)While ye, with honest rage, devoted pourYour inmost bosom's gore!—Yet give one hour to thought,And ye shall own, how little he can holdAnother's glory dear, who sets his own at noughtO Latin blood of old!Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame,Nor bow before a name[Pg 126]Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce!For if barbarians rudeHave higher minds subdued,Ours! ours the crime!—not such wise Nature's course.
Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd?And here, in cradled rest,Was I not softly hush'd?—here fondly rear'd?Ah! is not this my country?—so endear'dBy every filial tie!In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!Oh! by this tender thought,Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought,Look on the people's grief!Who, after God, of you expect relief;And if ye but relent,Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,Against blind fury bent,Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight;For no,—the ancient flameIs not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name!
Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong,Swift hurries life along!E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.We sojourn here a day—the next, are gone!The soul disrobed—alone,Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear.Oh! at the dreaded bourne,Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn,(Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!)And ye, whose crueltyHas sought another's harm, by fairer deedOf heart, or hand, or intellect, aspireTo win the honest meedOf just renown—the noble mind's desire!Thus sweet on earth the stay!Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way!
My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth,Thy daring reasons grace,For thou the mighty, in their pride of place,Must woo to gentle ruth,[Pg 127]Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse,Ever to truth averse!Thee better fortunes wait,Among the virtuous few—the truly great!Tell them—but who shall bid my terrors cease?Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!
Dacre.
See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,And on its weary shoulders death appears!Now all is life and all is spring:Think on the winter and the darker dayWhen the soul, naked and alone,Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,Yet ever beaten way.And through this fatal valeWould you be wafted with some gentle gale?Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,Clouds that involve our life's serene,And storms that ruffle all the scene;Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain,On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;Whether with hand or wit you raiseSome monument of peaceful praise,Some happy labour of fair love:'Tis all of heaven that you can find below,And opens into all above.
Basil Kennet.
Written by Robert Duncan | Create an image from this poem

The Song of the Borderguard

 The man with his lion under the shed of wars
sheds his belief as if he shed tears.
The sound of words waits -
a barbarian host at the borderline of sense.

The enamord guards desert their posts
harkening to the lion-smell of a poem
that rings in their ears. 

-Dreams, a certain guard said
were never designd so
to re-arrange an empire.

Along about six o'clock I take out my guitar
and sing to a lion
who sleeps like a line of poetry
in the shed of wars.

The man shedding his belief
knows that the lion is not asleep, 
does not dream, is never asleep, 
is a wide-awake poem
waiting like a lover for the disrobing of the guard; 
the beautil boundaries of the empire
naked, rapt round in the smell of a lion.

(The barbarians have passt over the significant phrase) 

-When I was asleep, 
a certain guard says, 
a man shed his clothes as if he shed tears
and appeard as a lonely lion
waiting for a song under the shed-roof of wars.

I sang the song that he waited to hear, 
I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet Acclaimd.

Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sang, 
believe, believe, believe, believe.
The shed of wars is splendid as the sky, 
houses our waiting like a pure song
housing in its words the lion-smell
of the beloved disrobed.

I sang: believe, believe, believe.

I the guard because of my guitar
belive. I am the certain guard, 
certain of the Beloved, certain of the lion, 
certain of the Empire. I with my guitar.
Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sing.
I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet on Guard.

The borderlines of sense in the morning light
are naked as a line of poetry in a war.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things