Written by
Amy Lowell |
A face seen passing in a crowded street,
A voice heard singing music, large and free;
And from that moment life is changed, and we
Become of more heroic temper, meet
To freely ask and give, a man complete
Radiant because of faith, we dare to be
What Nature meant us. Brave idolatry
Which can conceive a hero! No deceit,
No knowledge taught by unrelenting years,
Can quench this fierce, untamable desire.
We know that what we long for once achieved
Will cease to satisfy. Be still our fears;
If what we worship fail us, still the fire
Burns on, and it is much to have believed.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
An Englishman was Thomas Paine
Who bled for liberty;
But while his fight was far from vain
He died in poverty:
Though some are of the sober thinking
'Twas due to drinking.
Yet this is what appeals to me:
Cobbet, a friend, loved him so well
He sailed across the surly sea
To raw and rigid New Rochelle:
With none to say: 'Take him not from us!'
He raped the grave of Thomas.
And in his library he set
These bones so woe-begone;
I have no doubt his eyes were wet
To scan that skeleton.
That grinning skull from which in season
Emerged the Age of Reason.
Then Cobbet in his turn lay dead,
And auctioneering tones
Over his chattels rudely said:
'Who wants them bloody bones?'
None did, so they were scattered far
And God knows where they are.
A friend of Franklin and of Pitt
He lived a stormy span;
The flame of liberty he lit
And rang the Rights of Man.
Yet pilgrims from Vermont and Maine
In hero worship seek in vain
The bones of Thomas Paine.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
Said he: "You saw the Master clear;
By Rushy Pond alone he sat,
Serene and silent as a seer,
in tweedy coat and seedy hat.
you tell me you did not intrude,
(Although his book was in your hand,)
Upon his melancholy mood . . .
I do not understand.
"You did not tell him: 'I have come
From o'er the sea to speak to you.'
You did not dare, your lips were dumb . . .
You thought a little zephyr blew
From Rushy Pond a touch of him
You'll cherish to your dying day,
Perhaps with tears your eyes were dim . . .
And then - you went away.
"And down the years you will proclaim:
'O call me dullard, dub me dunce!
But let this be my meed of fame:
I looked on Thomas Hardy once.
Aye, by a stile I stood a span
And with these eyes did plainly see
A little, shrinking, shabby man . . .
But Oh a god to me!'"
Said I: "'Tis true, I scarce dared look,
yet he would have been kind, I'm sure;
But though I clutched his precious book
I feared to beg his signature.
Ah yes, my friend, I merit mirth.
You're bold, you have the right to laugh,
And if Christ came again to earth
You'd cadge his autograph."
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